Perpetual Storm
by AdmiralCats
Summary: (Bad Company: Book 14) A new squad moves into the base, headed by a rough sergeant who is quick to alienate Drake and the other Marines. Rocky relationships form, and Drake finds a somewhat kindred spirit in the new unit's medtech, who was also a convicted murderer. However, that's where the similarities seem to end.
1. Chapter 1

It must have been one o'clock in the morning when we all awoke to hearing a British accent barking orders in the hallway. Hicks was the first to get out of his bunk, groaning a little as he stretched and took his bathrobe from a hook on the side of the rack. "They're a little early."

"What the hell, man?" Hudson mumbled into his pillow.

Spunkmeyer sat up, rubbing his eyes and sighing. "Is this a dream?"

"No. It's our new roommates," Hicks replied, opening the door. A short, skinny man in utilities was yelling at a line of Marines as they marched down the hall, carrying their duffel bags.

"Go on! Keep moving, keep moving! Don't you dare turn to look at them! Ariker! Neslie! You're slowing up the shit-line!"

I was laying on my belly in my rack, watching with my head in my arms. Hicks stood in the doorway, seemingly protecting us. "I didn't know we were getting new roommates," I said.

"Yeah, I didn't either till last night," Hicks replied, glancing over his shoulder at me. "Try to go back to sleep, Drake.

"I gotta pee, man," Hudson announced.

"You're gonna have to wait. Why didn't you go before lights-out?"

"I didn't have to go then."

Hicks rolled his eyes. After the last new Marine passed by, he stepped out into the hallway, extending his hand to the British sergeant. "Sergeant Foster. I'm Corporal Hicks."

"I know who you are," Foster replied. "Let me put my sad sacks in bed, and then I'll talk to you and Apone, got it?"

Hicks nodded, slowly retreating back into the room. He looked up at me. "Can you escort Hudson to the bathroom?"

"He's a grown man. Why does he need an escort?" I groaned.

"Because I don't need him annoying Foster," Hicks whispered.

"I heard that," Hudson muttered.

I sighed, climbing down from my bunk. "Come on, little William, let's go tinkle."

"Shut up, man."

* * *

In the morning, everyone headed down to the mess hall, all curious about these newcomers. It's not unusual for multiple units to be on one base, but it's unusual for us.

A few minutes after we sat down, we were joined by the new unit. They waited until Foster gave them the order to sit, and none of them moved a muscle until Bishop served them. Their corporal, Neslie, was a young guy with jet-black hair and prominent cheekbones. He glanced around at us, settling his gaze on Hudson, who was alternating between eating a banana and drinking a glass of milk.

"You don't wait till everyone is served?" Neslie asked.

Hudson looked at him. "Who, me?" he said, with his mouth full.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," I hissed.

Neslie glanced at me. "Smartgunner?"

I nodded. "How'd you know?"

"You have the upper-arm build of one." Neslie gestured in Vasquez's direction. "As does she."

"Yeah. We're both smartgunners," I said. "Fun job."

Vasquez didn't say anything. It was pretty obvious she didn't trust any of the new people at the table.

Apone glanced up at Foster when the British sergeant down, holding a cup of watery coffee. "You said you weren't gonna be here till this morning."

"Well, things changed. I was able to get my Marines here a hell of a lot earlier," Foster replied.

"Sacrificing their sleep?"

"They'll get plenty of sleep tonight, Apone. One night won't do them any harm."

"Sir, would you like a glass of milk? Orange juice?" Bishop asked, hovering over Foster.

"No, thank you." Foster turned to look at his Marines, and Apone's. "Who's that?" He pointed at Hudson.

"With his cheeks full of food and the tiny goatee? That's Hudson," Apone said.

"And the tall, grouchy-looking blond?"

"Drake."

"The petite Latina?"

"That's Vasquez."

Foster basically went around the table until he got everyone's name, but he'd be fucking that up for days to come. Mainly, he kept messing up Spunkmeyer and Wierzbowski, and ended up referring to them as "the gentlemen whose names I can never remember."

At first, it seemed like Foster was just as reasonable as Apone, but things changed as we got interact with his unit over the course of that first day. He didn't make casual conversation with his corporal the way Apone does with Hicks. In fact, Neslie acted more like a private than a corporal, but he definitely had the rough edge of one.

Hicks didn't dictate how we behaved around the newcomers. He gave us all our own space so we could get to know each other, but what made me anxious was overhearing him talking to Foster and Neslie about _me_.

". . . Everyone here is physically healthy," Hicks was saying, "but we do have one Marine with post-traumatic stress disorder."

"Combat-related?" Foster asked.

"No. An accident on the lab next to Gateway Station. He's receiving treatment, but . . . please, treat him with the same respect you'd show anyone else."

"Which one has it?"

"Drake." Hicks folded his arms over his chest, giving Foster a stern look. "You're not gonna go harangue him, are you?"

"No. What the hell gave you that idea?"

"I don't want to hear about anyone asking Drake about what's going on in his personal life."

Foster didn't reply right away. He glanced at Neslie, then Hicks. "Alright. I will leave Drake alone, then."

I noticed Hicks's expression changing, fading into something akin to regret, like he should've worded what he said differently.

* * *

In the gym, Hudson and I sat by a bench press, chewing fat wads of bubble gum, while watching everyone attempt to interact with each other. "If I wasn't dating Miranda, I'd say their dropship co-pilot is kinda hot," Hudson whispered.

I looked over at the treadmills, seeing a young lady with very short, wavy red hair running on one. I think her name's Lyden. A few minutes later, she got off the treadmill, and approached us. "Hi! You guys must be . . . Drake and Hudson. Only two I haven't met yet. Which one of you is-"

"I'm Hudson. He's Drake," Hudson chirped. "We're best buds." He slapped my shoulder and hugged me.

All I did was grunt at him.

"Nice. I'm Lyden." She held out her hand. "How long have you been in this unit together?"

"I've been in for about five years," Hudson replied. "Drake and his g-I mean, friend, Vasquez just joined us two years ago."

Hudson almost spilled the beans. I reached behind his back, and pinched him hard, almost digging my nails into his side.

" _Ow!_ They're our smartgunners."

"Our corporal is a smartgunner. You guys met Neslie?"

"This morning, yeah."

Lyden leaned in to whisper. "He seems a little distant at first, but he's really friendly when you get to know him."

"Just like you, Drake."

"I am not friendly, period," I said. I made eye contact with Lyden, taking note of how she appeared to genuinely believe that.

Hudson rolled his eyes. "You don't need to announce that, man. Hicks told us to behave, and that goes for you, too." He looked back at Lyden. "So, where're you from?"

"Dublin, Ireland," she replied.

"Is your whole unit from Great Britain and that area?"

"Pretty much. Me and Neslie are from Ireland. Foster, Ariker, and the rest are English-though, Ariker might be Scottish. No one's really sure."

"How's that possible?"

"Well, he's . . . he's a felon. He was serving a life term when the USCM announced a new program for juvenile delinquents to enlist and have their sentences terminated. He doesn't talk much about his past, and doesn't like people asking."

Hudson looked at me. "You and Vasquez came from that."

I nodded. "And I don't like people asking about my fucking past, either."

"I guess that explains why you're not very friendly, Drake," Lyden replied. "You and Ariker might get along."

I didn't offer a response to that, aside from blowing a good-size bubble and letting it pop. There are plenty of Marines who came in from prison. I wasn't going to get along with any of them just because of that.

* * *

I was glad when it was time for me to head down to sick bay for my daily therapy with Doctor Ranelli. I was tired of being around so many people and dealing with new faces. When I was alone in the hallway, my emotions were threatening to crash, unable to fully comprehend all the changes that literally happened overnight. After closing the door behind me in Ranelli's office, I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good morning, Drake," Ranelli said, from his desk. "Fancy some coffee?"

"Yes, please," I replied, sitting on the couch, and giving another sigh. "Did you see the new squad that came in last night?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did." Ranelli took a full pot of coffee out, and angled it above a cup. "Would you like flavored creamer? I have amaretto, white chocolate raspberry, hazelnut-"

"I'll try the amaretto."

Ranelli added the creamer to a mug, and carried it over to me. "So, I'm guessing part of this session will consist of you listing everything you don't like about this new change," he said.

"Yeah. I kinda wish Hicks said something to me beforehand, but I don't think my feelings would change. I don't hate the new guys, but I also . . ." I frowned. "What's the right word?"

"You're feeling a little territorial. That's a completely natural feeling. And, coming from you, I'm not surprised. You value your space, and you're not good with change. That I noticed when we moved here two months ago."

I nodded. "It happened too fast. That move happened too fast."

"It's a part of life. You will, at some point, reach a stage in your life where you'll be more in control of your surroundings, and allow change to happen gradually, at your own pace. Now, as you were saying, you don't hate this new group of Marine, but you don't fully trust them. It'll be some time before you do. They may not even be staying with us for very long."

I was silent for a few minutes, trying to enjoy my coffee, and get it in my system. "I overheard Hicks telling Sergeant Foster that I have PTSD."

"He has to. You wouldn't want anyone unintentionally hurting you, now, would you?"

"But . . . it's not a result of a combat. It's a result of something that no one in Foster's squad knows about, and . . . I feel like it's just gonna generate curiosity and people are gonna do the opposite of what Hicks says. I've already fucked up in front of one of them because Hudson can't shut his mouth for two minutes." I set my cup down so I could mock Hudson. "'Hey, man. She's really hot, man. I'm gonna impress her by being obnoxious, man. Y'know, man, I still think she's hot even though I'm dating someone else, man, your feelings can shove it.'"

Ranelli smiled as I did my terrible impression of Hudson, and then told the actual story of what happened in the gym. "I think he will apologize to you before the end of the day, maybe try to help you repair the damage you've done."

I shook my head. "I made a shitty first impression. There's no way Lyden will want to be around me. I . . . God, just like everyone else."

"Ferro took the time to get to know you. There's no reason Lyden won't do the same."

"They're two different people."

"But, did they both have a low opinion on you?"

"I don't know if Ferro did."

"Alright, here's a better example; you had a low opinion of Hudson when you first met him, correct?"

"Yeah."

"And now, you're friends. People's thoughts change after getting to know someone."

"It took me and Hudson two years."

"Hudson is about as hard-headed as you are. That's probably why."

I grinned a little. "True."

"Don't give up on improving your impression, Drake. With time, you'll learn what works and what doesn't with different people. Now, how did you sleep last night?"

"I was woken up when Foster's unit came in. Then I had to escort Hudson to the bathroom."

"Any nightmares?"

"Not last night."

"How was your appetite last night and this morning?"

"On and off. Mainly off, but my mood swung really bad when we were all in the lounge last night, so I felt really hungry and ate two candy bars from the vending machine."

"What made your mood swing?"

"I don't know. I guess . . . I wasn't listening to my brain when it was saying, 'You need to be alone, or else you're gonna crash.' I don't get why I keep crashing, over and over and over again. How is that possible?"

"It's one of two things, or a combination of both. One is that you're pushing yourself too hard, when your mind still isn't ready. Two is that your body is beginning to fight off something. It is cold and flu season, after all."

I shrugged. "I have been feeling a little sluggish ever since we got back from Norway. I thought it was fucking jet lag."

"It's quite possible you're a little sick. However, don't discount the fact that you may be pushing yourself too hard when it comes to interacting with other people. There's still a part of your subconscious mind that doesn't want to come out of your shell, and that part of your mind is incredibly powerful; it's where your emotions and thoughts go when they're suppressed. It's where your dreams and nightmares originate. It's possible that it's also where your illness is born. Now, that's only a theory, but think about it for a moment. No one ever consciously decides to be depressed, or suffer from trauma. Your subconscious is where the awful parts of your life, the parts you wish you could forget, go to hide, and wait for the perfect moment to re-emerge."

"Never thought of it that way before. If it's so powerful, why bother trying to change my thinking, then?"

"It can change with time and practice. Only if you let it go for an extended period of time will it become less and less controllable. You're not the worst case I've ever seen. Hicks let his problems go on for far longer than you."

"You're right if you're talking about my PTSD, but not about . . . my guilt complex and constant feelings of regret. I've let that go on since I was sixteen."

"When's your birthday?"

"December seventh."

"Oh. That was two weeks ago."

I suddenly felt like everything in my stomach sank to the bottom of my abdominal cavity. "So, I completely forgot about . . . my own birthday."

Ranelli nodded, a sad smile on his face.

"And no else, even my own girlfriend, didn't bring it up."

"Well, there was the Christmas party-"

"OK, I really don't care about gifts. I just . . . no one . . . remembered. Not Vasquez, not Hudson, not Hicks. Wow, that's a real easy way to feel so unimportant."

"You're not unimportant. Things like this happen."

That didn't stop me from feeling awful. I asked Ranelli if we could continue my session later, and he said that was fine. When I left sick bay, I didn't know who to confront first. I decided not to confront Vasquez, because we're trying not to argue so much, so I looked for Hudson. Turns out, he was in the lounge, talking and laughing with Lyden. I was experiencing a combination of feeling sucker-punched in the stomach, and that my blood was boiling with anger.

And yet, I couldn't bring myself to go in there and explode on Hudson. My anger began slowly leaking out through tears, and I felt nauseated.

I didn't want to let the new unit see me like this, so I quickly headed down to my room, climbing onto my bunk, and laying there. I cried while staring up at the ceiling, hoping and praying no one walked in on me. Much to my misfortune, though, Spunkmeyer came in, and looked up at me. "You doing OK, Drake?"

All he got was a sob.

"Do you want me to get Hicks?"

I shook my head.

"Do you need someone to listen to you?"

I nodded.

"Alright, fire away."

"Everyone-including me-forgot my birthday," I said. "I . . . It was two weeks ago, and . . . I know it's really fucking petty, but . . . I can't . . . I don't know."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I was in boot camp during my birthday. No one cares-well, actually, the drill instructors knew. One of them came up to me that morning and said, 'It's your birthday, Spunky, but we're gonna treat you like everyone else. No fucking cake for you.' You know, their spiel about how you're not special and all that shit."

"I spent two birthdays in jail," I said. "How do you think that went?"

"OK, it . . . it doesn't matter 'bout that, alright? I'm just saying that it's not the end of the world if people forget your birthday."

"But, I've made friends here. They should know. _Hicks_ should know."

"Shit happens, Drake. I don't know what else to say that would make you feel better. I mean, I don't think lying here sulking about it will make anything better."

I sighed. "I know, but I'm just . . . really upset at everyone right now. If I approach them now, I'll yell at them and make everything worse, and I don't want to do that in front of the new guys."

"That's understandable. If you want, we can go into town and get something to drink."

"Thanks, but no thanks," I replied. "Did enough drinking at the Christmas party."

"Oh, yeah, how was that?"

"Not bad, but not wonderful, either. Hudson spent the whole time drinking and stuffing himself. I had to deal with a flashback. Hicks was nice enough to sit and talk with me, though."

Spunkmeyer thought for a moment. "You know, when I first saw you, you struck me as the kinda person who goes to parties for the sole purpose of flirting with every chick in the room. I'm glad I was wrong."

"You're dead wrong, because I can't flirt to save my life."

"You think you're bag. Have you seen-"

"Hudson? Yeah, it's gonna be awhile before he finds someone who can put with him and his crap."

"Really? Vasquez was telling me that Hudson's hooked up with a girl you guys met in D.C. a few months ago, and they did pretty well at the party."

I was half-expecting Spunkmeyer to ask if Hudson and Miranda had sex, but that wasn't in his nature. "Yeah, they talked a lot. Hudson was . . . Hudson, but it didn't look like his friend hated him after awhile."

"If she can put up with him, more power to her."

"I hope so," I replied, sighing. "No one should have to die alone when they get older."

* * *

 _Question: Was it really Hudson that set off Drake, or does he still need to learn when is a good time to announce that he's not friendly?_

 _Author's Note: This story was tough to start. On one hand, I wanted to just keep going with Drake, and on the other, I was tempted to start a spinoff with Hudson as the protagonist. I really don't want to work on three projects all at once, but I'm definitely not abandoning anything. I may do the Hudson story after finishing Hicks. I may put Drake on hold if people would rather see a story from Hudson's point-of-view. Anything could happen, but that doesn't mean I'm going to quit writing._


	2. Chapter 2

It's safe to say I was still not a happy camper over the fact that people I know forgot my birthday, and I battled myself over how I was going to handle this. Eventually, though, I decided the best thing to do was go to Hicks.

While everyone else was in the lounge that night, I searched around for Hicks, and found him sitting on the floor in our room, with a small book in his lap. "Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?" I asked.

"Sure. Go ahead and close the door." Hicks closed the book, giving me his full attention. "What's up, Drake?"

"Well . . . I don't know how to say this without sounding like an ass, so, I'm just gonna say it; I'm kinda pissed that you guys . . . forgot my birthday. I know it sounds really petty, and-"

"It's not petty. Trust me, I get it. You're probably not gonna want to hear any excuses, but, we were busy that time, and I'm sorry. I mean, I'll be honest, we don't always remember each other's birthdays. Hell-" Hicks leaned in to whisper, "we forgot about Hudson's birthday a few years ago, so when we did remember the next year, we were a year off, and his cake said twenty-three instead of twenty-four."

"I don't think he cared, did he?" I asked, resisting a smirk. "He probably destroyed the cake before he noticed."

"No, he was pretty good about that. He noticed alright, and said, 'You guys know I'm really twenty-four, right? But, it's real sweet that you think I'm younger, man.'"

"So, he didn't care."

"Not really. I didn't bother telling him that it was because we had forgotten last time, but he did eventually figure that out. He wasn't pissed, but you could tell he was a little disappointed in us all."

"Well, if he knows how it feels, then he should-"

"Drake, he's human. He makes mistakes as easily as you do." Hicks paused, rolling his eyes. "Well, more easily than you do, but you get my point." He gave me a genuine smile. "If it'd make you feel better, I can arrange for something as a belated birthday gift. How about we go into town tomorrow night and have dinner? You can bring whoever you want."

"You'll make sure Hudson doesn't have more than two beers? I don't want him singing to me. At all."

"I'll do my best." Hicks watched as I stood up to leave, then said, "Hey, I'm proud of you, Drake."

"Why? I haven't done anything spectacular," I muttered.

"You came to me with an issue, and you didn't . . . you didn't blow up or cry about it. That's good. That's a step in the right direction. Now, don't take that as 'you need to just keep your anger or frustration or sadness from emerging.' No, I'm not saying that at all. Trust me, that is never helpful. But, you expressed that you were upset, and I understand that you're upset, and I'm making a move to correct it. You get that?"

I nodded. Instead of going back to the lounge with everyone else, I grabbed a clean shirt and shorts, and headed into the shower. After showering, I decided to just go to bed early.

Hicks glanced at me as I climbed into my bunk, and lay there with my hands folded over my belly. "You're not going to the lounge?"

"No. Everyone's kinda focusing on the new guys, and I'm just . . . not interested in socializing right now."

"That's OK. I won't force you to go back." Hicks closed his book again, and slid it back into a small compartment in his rack. "Did you start reading that guide I gave you?"

"Sort of. The knowledge isn't sinking in, yet." I looked at him. "You're not gonna tell me to study, are you?"

"Nah. It'll sink in, eventually." Hicks got in his bunk, maintaining eye contact with me. "Oh, that's another thing I guess I can count as a birthday gift . . . remember at the party in Norway when I said I can get you into a life skills course for transferring into civilian life? Well, I got you signed up yesterday. First class will be after New Year's."

"Gee, thanks. Wait, what exactly am I gonna learn? I already mentioned I know how to drive."

"You'll be given a checklist when you go down to the classroom. There's driving, cooking, finances, resumes, getting your GED, all that kind of stuff."

"I already have my GED."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I . . . took the test to get it . . . a few months ago."

"Huh. What'd your average come out to?"

"A fucking 'B.'"

"Hey, a 'B' isn't bad. That's actually really good, especially for when you're job-hunting. That kind of edge is what you'll need if you're looking for a job with multiple applicants."

"Yeah, but having PTSD will be a major strike against me."

"Not necessarily. If the application doesn't ask for stuff like that, you have no reason to tell them about it. Not unless something comes up where you feel it's absolutely necessary to inform your employer. Just, don't be rude about it. Talk to them in private, and say, 'Look, I've been dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder for awhile, and this situation isn't helping with it,' or something like that. It doesn't have to be a big, dramatic reveal, and I really hope you don't get put in a situation you weren't expecting where you suffer a flashback or you feel like you need to just shut down."

"I think that's going to happen at some point in my life, and there's nothing I can do about it."

"Maybe. I also hope you get far enough in your treatment where you feel like you can deal with whatever life throws at you."

"Well, what if I don't?"

"I think you will. Even if it takes decades, I think you will. Don't rush it. Nothing good can come out of that."

I thought for a moment, then said, "Hicks, I know you're in this for the long haul, but if and when I leave . . . do you want to stay in contact with me?"

"Sure, I do. We're not just colleagues; we're friends."

"You feel like we're friends?"

"Yeah. Why? You don't think so?"

"I dunno. I . . . I see you as an older brother, the brother that I didn't have growing up. Hell, I didn't have an older sibling."

Hicks looked up at the bottom of Spunkmeyer's bunk, which he had covered with pictures and quotes he liked. He then looked at me, smiling. "I see you as a brother as well," he said. "I see you as a friend, a brother, a very reliable colleague, a fellow Marine. I will definitely stay in contact with you when we go our separate ways, and I'll miss you. That's a few years down the road, though. Right now, it's good to enjoy what you have, work on your current problems, and . . . you know, be in the present. You get what I'm saying?"

I nodded. "I get it. It's hard to do, sometimes."

"You're stuck in the past. Believe me, that's not easy to pull yourself out of, and PTSD adds to that challenge. You are making progress, though. I can see it, Apone sees it, Ranelli sees it. We all see it. It's important that you start to see it, but, understand that people around you are seeing an improvement with you." Hicks looked toward the door when he heard Hudson yelling happily while walking toward the room. "We can talk more tomorrow. I won't forget to make those arrangements for a belated birthday." He pulled his blanket over his shoulders, turning toward the wall.

I watched him breathe for a few minutes before I decided to try to sleep as well. A few minutes later, Hudson walked into the room, hair dripping with water from his shower.

"Hey, Drake," he said.

I made sure my back was to him, so he didn't see I wasn't actually sleeping.

"I was talking to Lyden about you, man. If it makes you feel any better, I told her you're not a bad guy. She was asking, you know, 'bout why you were a bit of a jackass earlier."

My heart became really heavy.

"I told her that you're not actually a jackass, man. You got your problems, and it's not your fault. She just needs to take her time in getting to know you better." Hudson paused. "You sleeping, Drake?"

I refused to move. Tears were rolling down my face. _Lyden really thinks I'm a horrible person._

Hudson hopped up on the side of his bunk to get a better look at me and give me a hug. Before he could touch me, though, Hicks growled, "Get in bed, Hudson."

* * *

I've gone a few weeks without a serious nightmare, so I guess my brain decided now was a good time to have one. The dream started out calmly. I was sitting in a chair, in a large house overlooking a river. At one point, I decided to get up, and as I went into the kitchen, I started choking. I grabbed at my throat, trying to scream.

Someone came running into the room. Looking panicked, Vasquez got behind me, wrapping her arms around the upper part of my abdomen and thrusting her clenched fist into it. When nothing flew out of my mouth, she said, "There's nothing there, Drake."

Tears were running down my face as I continued trying to scream. The edges of my vision were starting to turn black, and spots were beginning to dance across it. Then I woke up.

My mouth and my throat were dry, and the saliva on my pillow told me that I had been acting out my dream in my sleep. It took awhile for me to work up enough spit to get rid of that awful dry feeling, and I tried to breathe more evenly.

Everyone else in the room was still sleeping. I lay back down, trying to get more sleep as well, but it wasn't coming. I tossed and turned for awhile, trying to let Hudson's snoring lull me off. When I couldn't stand it anymore, I hung over the side of my rack, reaching in to close Hudson's mouth.

I didn't realize touching him would wake him up. His eyes shot open, and he swiped at me, hollering. I fell from my bunk, landing on my right slide and feeling a sudden, sharp pain tear through my arm.

Hicks and Spunkmeyer jolted up. Spunkmeyer groaned, planting his face in his pillow. "You've gotta be kidding me."

Hicks got out of his bunk, glaring at us with bloodshot gray-green eyes. "What the fuck are you two doing?" he hissed.

Hudson looked around, trying to figure out what just happened. "I dunno, man. Something touched my face." His jaw dropped when he saw me on the floor, cradling my arm. "Was that you, Drake?"

"Yes, it was me!" I wailed. "Dammit, you didn't have to hit me!"

"Alright, that's enough." Hicks helped me up. "Hudson, go back to sleep. I'm taking Drake to sick bay and getting that arm X-rayed."

I was half-expecting that I would have to wait until morning, or be transported to a mainland hospital. But, the good news was that there was someone in sick bay, and it wasn't Bishop.

Sergeant Foster's medtech, Ariker, the guy Lyden said was also from juvie, was carrying bags of medication from the storage room. The best word I can use to describe him is small, with large, unblinking sea-green eyes. He was rod-thin, with very taut features, and well-kept brown hair.

"Hey, I'm sorry we're bothering you, but, he needs an X-ray," Hicks said.

"What the hell was he doing? Sleepwalking?" Ariker asked.

"No. He fell off his bunk."

"Ah. Come along, then, I'll take care of it." Ariker gently led us to a dark room with the X-ray machine. Despite the pain, the darkness and the machines were reminding me too much of the lab with the silver flowers, and I struggled to keep from panicking. My nightmare was still fresh on my mind. Ariker gave me a heavy, padded vest. The panic and fear broke loose, and I couldn't get my breathing under control.

"This'll only take a few seconds, OK?" Hicks squeezed my shoulder, gently, and turned the seat so he could face me. "Take a deep breath. Everything's gonna be OK . . . That's it . . . keep breathing, nice and even. Better?"

I nodded, my breath slowing down.

"Alright. Let's get this over with. I'm not leaving the room." Hicks stepped behind Ariker, who flipped on the machine and made sure I was sitting properly to get a good enough image.

After taking several X-rays, Ariker took them to another room so they could be processed. A few minutes later, he brought them out, and pinned them to a light so we could see. "It's not a fracture," he said. "Most likely a bone bruise. In order to confirm that, I'll have to give him an MRI."

"He'd probably have to be sedated for that," Hicks replied.

"Why? Claustrophobic?"

"No." Hicks leaned in to whisper to Ariker what exactly was wrong with me.

"Well, if that's the case, then I'll have to go the traditional route, which is going to be excruciatingly painful for him." Ariker stared at Hicks, pulling the X-rays down from the light. "You want that?"

"Will it take long?"

"No."

"Fine. It's better than shoving him in a machine for an hour."

Sighing, Ariker brought me to another room, where he rested my arm on a small table, and began examining my it. "Can you make a fist?"

I tried, and winced in pain.

"I'll take that as a 'no.'" Ariker took my forearm, gently pressing it. I kept grimacing, until he came to the spot I know hit the hard floor in the bedroom, and I screamed. "Right. That's a bone bruise. It's swelling up pretty good, and you will notice a lot of pooling blood in that little area. It's definitely not the worst thing I've ever seen, but you will be out of action for a month."

I sighed, an immense feeling of uselessness crashing down on me. "God . . . dammit."

Hicks knew he had to tell Apone right away, but he instead dragged a chair over to me, and touched my shoulder. "Everything'll be fine, I promise. It's only a temporary setback. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

I had no words. I felt like I had been pushed over the edge of a cliff, and was falling forever.

Ariker wasn't showing any signs of sympathy. He searched the cabinets in the room for something, and then looked at us, saying, "I have to go get a sling and painkillers from storage. I'll be back in a minute or two."

Hicks didn't want to leave me alone. "I can tell Apone in the morning. Right now, getting you settled is more important."

I didn't respond. I could still feel Ariker pressing on the spot on my arm. Despite being in so much pain, I was thinking about how stupid I was. I was the reason I was injured. I shouldn't have leaned over to shut Hudson's mouth. I should've just dealt with it and went back to sleep. Once more, guilt was running rampant in my brain.

* * *

I showed up at breakfast wearing a sling and loaded with painkillers. They made me feel loopy and sick, and I didn't feel like eating. My arm was throbbing in the sling, sending a very dull ache all throughout the right side of my torso.

Hudson clearly felt bad for knocking me out of my rack. He was picking at his food, and didn't make eye contact with me when I sat down. It was especially embarrassing for us with the new unit observing everything.

"What happened?" Neslie asked.

"Accident," Hicks replied. "Drake . . . had a misstep when trying to get out of his rack last night to use the restroom."

Good ol' Hicks. I usually don't like it when people lie, but for now, I appreciated him trying to protect my dignity, as well as Hudson's.

However, Apone knew the real story, but the look he gave Hicks said that he was going to keep it between us.

There wasn't much conversation that morning. Well, nothing worth me noting, at least. Hudson barely ate a thing, and left the table before anyone else. I tried to eat, but I was beginning to nod off in my yogurt. After breakfast, I was order to go to my rack and get more sleep, while everyone else trained together.

I'll be honest, I felt better after getting a long nap. The painkillers were still in my system, and although I prefer that to being in pain, I hated feeling like I was going to puke at any second, and that I was so tired, despite getting much-needed sleep.

With a foggy brain, I dragged myself out of the room. I probably should've just spent the whole day in bed, but I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts for very long, especially since they were all loosey-goosey from the medication. It didn't help that little things were very frustrating now, like getting my fucking robe on with one good arm.

I saw everyone else was in the gym, doing their daily workouts. I usually work out with Hudson, but he got paired with a guy from the other squad, and it looked like they were enjoying themselves. Not wanting to screw with everyone's day, I headed to sick bay, to talk to Doctor Ranelli. My heart sank into my queasy stomach when I saw his office was dark and the door was locked.

"Weren't you told to rest?"

I looked to my right to see Ariker coming down the hall. "Yeah . . . I usually see Ranelli . . . every day . . . for my therapy."

"He went into the city to send out his mail and get groceries. He said he was going to be back by one this afternoon."

I sighed. "I can't wait that long."

Ariker looked at his watch. "I'm sure you can wait two hours, Private. Again, you should be resting."

He didn't have to say anything else, because I was already leaning against the wall, fast asleep.

* * *

 _Question: What would be a better way for Drake to have handled his sleeplessness after waking from a nightmare?_


	3. Chapter 3

You'd be surprised to learn that Ariker just left me there, sleep-standing against the wall. It wasn't until Ranelli got back when someone finally noticed.

"Good Lord," Ranelli said, before shaking me awake. "What on Earth happened to you?"

I wasn't sure if he was referring to my right arm in a sling or the fact that I was sleeping by his room, so I said, "I don't know."

"What kind of painkillers have they got you on, Drake?" Ranelli muttered. "Come on, let's . . . let's go on in my office, and talk."

I managed to explain what had happened last night, as well as how Ariker was a bit of dick. Ranelli was quick to give me a cup of hot ginger tea to help with my nausea, and he busied himself with paperwork while I drank.

"I'm very sorry this happened to you, Drake," Ranelli said, sitting on the couch across from me. "I can imagine this hasn't had a good impact on your mental health."

"No. Out of commission for a whole fucking month. I'm probably gonna go bananas in here."

"Well, my job is to keep you from going bananas. I'm sure we can find something to keep your mind occupied productively while you're recuperating."

I sighed. "Hicks signed me up for a life skills class that starts after New Year's. I'm gonna look like a moron trying to learn how to cook with only one arm."

"Hicks signed you up for life skills? Wonderful! I run that."

"Really?" I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I was afraid it was gonna be run by someone who'd spend the whole time embarrassing me."

"No. I will not embarrass you. I will help you, but, please remember that there will be other Marines in that class, so, don't expect the same attention I give you during therapy."

"Do you know who else is gonna be in that class?"

"Not until people sign up for the classes they want to take."

"Do you teach every class?"

"No. I teach cooking, but I'm also in charge of the life skills operation."

"Do you know who the other teachers are?"

"I only know Doctor Thera, who teaches finances. She can be strict. She treats everyone the same. You . . . You probably wouldn't get along very well with her because your personalities clash. You seem like the type to butt heads with someone who doesn't have a grasp on what you're going through right now."

"I don't even know if I should take a finance class."

"It's important. Very important. For someone like yourself, who makes decisions based on his emotions, that can lead to very poor choices, some of which might put you in debt. It would be wise to learn the ins and outs of managing your money. You have several more years in your contract, which gives you a lot of time to take a course in the future."

I nodded. "I'll think about it."

* * *

Maybe I'll change my mind in the next few days. Who knows?

The good news of the day was that Hicks was still going to take me for a belated birthday dinner at a diner in the city, and I could take whoever I wanted with us. Without question, I took Hudson and Vasquez.

I honestly thought about taking Ferro. After all, I did spill my guts to her about my past and why I can be an ass sometimes, and she does know about me and Vasquez being a couple. I feel like I'd make myself out to be a better friend by asking if she'd like to join us.

I brought up the courage to ask not too long before we had to head out, after finding Ferro in the lounge. "Hey . . . can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Ferro replied, glancing at me.

"Would you like to come with me, Vasquez, Hicks, and Hudson into town for a very belated birthday dinner?"

"Whose birthday?"

"Mine."

"I didn't know your birthday had passed."

"Neither did everyone else. Anyway, Hicks is making up for it by taking me somewhere, and . . . I want you to join us."

"Yes, I'll join you. Absolutely." Ferro stood up, and followed me out into the hall. "Anything to get out of here for a few minutes," she whispered.

"Getting tired of this place, too?"

"Not really of this place, but of . . . certain people. You know they moved Lyden into my room? She's very . . . talkative, and asks a lot of questions, and just . . . doesn't know how to let people be. So, yeah, I'm glad I can get out of here for a little while."

"Well, then, you're welcome," I replied, smirking.

I'm not being dishonest when I say that I actually felt like I was going to enjoy myself and have fun. The main issue I had was that I had mixed feelings about all the attention being on me; I normally don't like being the center of attention, but these were all people who cared about me and were well-aware of my problems. When we got to the diner, the first thing I did was go in the restroom, trying to deal with the second thoughts I was having about this.

About five minutes later, Hudson came in to knock on the door. "Everything OK, Drake?"

"I don't know," I said.

"You got the shits?"

"No. I just . . . Not sure how I feel about being the center of attention right now."

"Well, no one's gonna bring up your PTSD, man, if that's what you're worried about."

"That doesn't matter. I'm still going to feel bad about myself."

Hudson sighed. "What would make you feel better, man?"

"Nothing. I don't want you guys to do anything for me, I'm sorry."

"You're beating yourself up again, man. Come on, Hicks is doing this outta the kindness of his heart. It'd hurt him if you dismissed this."

I thought about that before leaving the restroom. I definitely didn't want to upset Hicks, not after everything he's done for me.

I couldn't have any alcohol because of the medication I was on for my arm, so I settled for a glass of icy water. As I eyed my drink, Ferro asked, "So, how old are you, Drake?"

"Twenty-three," I replied.

"I think we're all early twenties, right? I'm twenty-three, too. Who's the oldest?"

"Twenty-two," Vasquez said.

"Twenty-four," Hicks added.

"Twenty-five, man," Hudson chirped.

"Old guy," I snorted.

"Hey, I can't believe I'm older than Hicks but he's a fucking corporal."

"That's because I actually bust my ass with work instead of goofing off every hour," Hicks replied. "You're not a lifer, right?"

"Nope. When I leave, I leave." Hudson threw his arm around me. "Maybe Drake and I will be neighbors."

"OK, you're my best friend, but I'd get tired of you real quick if we were neighbors," I said.

Hudson tapped his chest. "That hurt, man."

"You know I'm kidding, right? I wouldn't mind being neighbors with you. After all, we're living and eating and taking shits in the same building right now. Neighbors probably wouldn't be so bad, because at least we won't have to shower together."

"I'm pretty much numb to seeing people naked, man."

Hicks almost choked on his drink. "I can see it now: Hudson walks downstairs, naked, not even a towel around his waist, and says to his wife, 'I forgot my PJs, honey,' and his wife will flip out at his lack of decency."

"That sounds accurate, aside from the part where Hudson has a wife," Vasquez replied.

"Hey, Miranda and I are getting along pretty well. Maybe we have a future together." Hudson smiled. "And I wouldn't just march downstairs naked."

"Are you forgetting this past August? That Saturday night when you realized you didn't have your skivvies and walked out of your bathroom looking for a pair?" Hicks asked.

"My stomach was so sore from laughing," I said.

"You were on the floor laughing. I've never seen you laugh so hard since you joined us."

"I've never seen you laugh."

"I laughed in private, because Apone was thoroughly pissed that day." Hicks pulled a half-empty pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Laughing's good for you."

"The opportunity doesn't present itself very often."

"I think it does, and you just don't see it sometimes. Besides, you might wanna learn to laugh at yourself from time to time. Anyway, before we descend into chaos, I think it's plausible Hudson's gonna walk around his own house naked at some point in time."

"Ditto." Vasquez raised her glass.

"That's not funny, man," Hudson muttered.

"It's hilarious. Laugh at yourself, dumbass."

"Be nice," I said.

"No, if we're gonna poke all the fun at me, then I think we should all poke fun at each other." Hudson turned to me, eyes narrowed to gray slits. "Even the birthday boy."

"Fine. Fire away." I took a sip of my drink, and remembered I was drinking water and not whiskey.

"You realize I'm gonna pound your head into the table if you start taking it too far, Hudson," Hicks said.

"Whatever, man." Hudson gulped down the last of his beer, and signaled for the waiter to bring him another one. "Remember the time Drake let one rip in the gym the day after Halloween?"

 _Really? Scraping the bottom of the barrel for ideas on how to completely embarrass me?_ I'll give Hudson credit for not immediately going for the jugular, but, come on. "I had too many fucking Milk Duds the night before, and I may've pushed a little too hard on the bench press."

"The whole room smelled like methane and body odor for a good two hours," Hicks added. "That must've been a lot of Milk Duds."

"Didn't help that everything echoes in the gym," Vasquez said.

"I fart in the gym all the time and no one hears it," Hudson announced.

Hicks rubbed his face. Ferro was laughing.

"You just turned the tables on yourself, bud," I said, grinning.

"That also explains why it reeks even when I tell you guys to give that room a good cleaning," Hicks snorted. "You need to stop taking two glasses of milk in the morning, Hudson."

"Well, maybe I'd feel better if we got real milk instead of the powdered stuff, man," Hudson mumbled.

"Or, maybe you're a little lactose intolerant," I replied.

"I can eat a whole box of ice cream and be fine."

"Wanna bet?"

Hicks held up his hands. "No. No, no. No betting on shit like that. We all sleep in the same room, and I don't think we want to choke to death on his fucking methane."

He had a point. I, for one, didn't want this conversation to go on, and I could tell Vasquez wasn't too happy that this was the topic we had settled on. "Alright," I said, "I think we can find something else to talk about. I mean, this is honestly pathetic. We're grown-ups, talking about who farts in the gym, and trying to pick on each other."

"Drake, relax. It's not bad to goof off just a little."

"And everything else we could talk about would make you upset," Vasquez added.

Silence fell over the whole table. Without a second thought, I gestured for Vasquez to get up so I could leave the booth, and promptly headed back into the restroom. I was about to sit next to the sinks when Hicks walked in.

"Go ahead, sit down," Hicks said, sitting with his back against a stall. "Am I right when I say there's a part of you that really doesn't want to be here?"

"Yeah, you're right," I grunted.

"I thought so."

"Are you mad?"

"No. Why would I be mad?"

"Because you're trying to do something for me and I'm just . . . I'm just pushing it away."

"Look, whenever someone wants to do something that most people would consider 'nice,' it doesn't mean you have to accept it. It's not nice when you feel uncomfortable the whole time, and when you're asked if you had fun, it's not gonna feel good to the other person when you say you didn't and you wish you didn't come. Or lie. I don't like lying, you don't, nobody here does. Anyway, my point is that . . . you need to be upfront and honest with people, that way you're not constantly being put into situations where you regret saying 'yes.' Hell, if you keep saying 'yes' because you want to be nice, people will start taking advantage of you. You can say 'no.'"

"Well, I know you, and I know you'd never take advantage of me, so I . . . I really don't have a good reason to say 'no' to you. So what if this makes me uncomfortable? I need to push past that."

"Not now." Hicks shook his head. "Believe me, I wanted to start diving into things when I started my therapy. My mind wasn't ready. I'd push myself too hard, and I would crash very easily. With what I had, saying 'yes' to going out almost always had very bad consequences. People were being very encouraging and getting me to be happier. Instead, my brain was interpreting that as 'you can do anything, and you have no limits.' My goal was to keep my moods from swinging so extremely, and stop myself from suppressing my emotions so much. When I swung into that 'mild mania' of bipolar two, I had a lot of energy, and I wasn't productive with that energy. Hell, if I wasn't with Apone for most of my therapy, I think I'd still be in your position. He knew how to stop me when I wanted to wake up at two in the fucking morning and take everyone outside for drill. He knew how to keep me going when my mood went way over the other side and I just wanted to quit." He sighed, and looked at me when he realized he had talked too much. "Drake, I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? I know what you mean. I have to be more honest and patient so I can recover better." I took a breath. "I mean, I'm very conflicted about this. I'm upset that people forgot my birthday, but, if I come out and say how I feel about going out, no one's even gonna care. They're gonna think that I really don't want anything and all I want is to be left alone, when that's not true."

"I think it depends on the situation. Would you feel better if Vasquez didn't say what she said to you?"

I nodded. "She's right, though. There's just . . . nothing we can talk about without me feeling like shit about something. I don't want to keep people from having the conversations they want to have, so, I should . . . I should leave. But, I know if I leave, people're gonna start thinking that I'm weak. I'm tired of looking weak."

"You're not weak. If you were weak, you would've quit a long time ago. If you were weak, you wouldn't have become a Marine. You're fighting a tough battle, and that battle leaves you beat up and exhausted some days. Don't ever assume you're weak just because you need to take a step back and breathe. You need that time to collect your thoughts, so you can go back into fighting feeling stronger and more confident."

I thought about what he was saying, and I tried to put it to heart. I gave another nod, and a sigh. "I'm not gonna waste everyone's time. I'm going back out there, and I'm gonna . . . try to be pleasant. You're right; those're my friends out there, not strangers."

Hicks and I went back out to the table, where the others were chatting quietly amongst themselves. They looked up to see us, and I heard Hudson say, "Everything good, man?"

"Everything's fine," Hicks replied. "Drake just needed someone to talk to, that's all."

"Well, Ferro told me I was a bit of an ass for what I said," Vasquez sighed. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," I said. "Not like you're wrong."

"Still isn't the right place for it. It's your birthday," Ferro said.

"Belated birthday."

"Whatever."

Hudson looked up from a plate of chicken wings lathered in hot sauce. "You know what, man? I think we should make Drake's day by telling him the impact he's had on all our lives."

I frowned, and glanced at Hicks, who was nodding, clearly thinking this was a good idea.

"OK. I'll start." Hicks placed his cigarette butt in the ashtray by the window. "I kinda had an idea that you were going to be carrying a lot of emotional baggage with you when you were assigned to my unit, mainly because you were coming from prison. I'll admit, it was challenging to finally get you to open up a little, but the whole time, I really did care about you as a human being. You have your struggles-we all do-but I don't regret accepting those papers to get you on board with us. I didn't just gain a good smartgunner; I gained a friend. Let's be real, who's the only person here that has seen me cry? Drake. I trust you. You may not think so right now, but you've got a good head on your shoulders, and a good heart in your chest. Your determination to beat your PTSD has made me more confident. Why? Because I didn't feel so determined when I was in your position four years ago." Hicks raised his glass. "I want to see you through your fight. Cheers."

"That got way too sappy, bud," I said, smirking.

"My turn, man," Hudson announced, with his mouth full. He finished chewing and swallowing a big piece of chicken wing, and wiped his mouth with a dirty napkin. "Drake, I kinda thought you were gonna be an asshole to everyone when I first met you. You pushed everyone away, and you just wanted to be left alone. Two years ago, I didn't fully understand that. Then again, my emotional intelligence was shitty anyway. A guy like you was the exact type of person I kinda needed in my life. I had a lot of moments where I felt something and couldn't explain it or express it properly. I've made a lot of mistakes and done a lot of shit I regret. When I gave you a chance, I started learning things. I finally started understanding why you are the way you are, and I started understanding a lot of the things I've felt in the past. I still struggle with it from time to time, but it'd be even worse if I didn't give you a chance, Drake." He opened his arms, and squeezed me. "I'm glad you're my best friend, man. Even when you fly off the handle."

"You're squeezing the tears out of me, moron," I replied, hugging him back.

We all looked at Vasquez, but I knew she didn't want to talk about her feelings in front of all these people. Even if Hicks wasn't here, she probably didn't want to make herself vulnerable. I think she was worried about how dangerously close we'd come to revealing our big secret to Hicks.

To be honest, I was beginning to think that we might be able to trust Hicks with that after all.

* * *

 _Question: Given how far Drake and Hicks's relationship has progressed (as well as what we know about Hicks and Carlisle from "White Noise"), is it still a bad idea for Drake to tell Hicks about his relationship with Vasquez?_

 _Author's Note: I like to imagine that Drake would be an absolute mess at his own wedding. Vasquez wouldn't be mad because she knows he loves her, but she'd still pinch his ear and drag him to the alter before he goes hiding in the bathroom again._


	4. Chapter 4

When the touchy-feely and emotional moments were out of the way, we had a good time. Not gonna lie. We gathered around a pool table after dinner and watched Hicks effortlessly beat Hudson. Twice. It made me say, "How come you never play in the lounge?"

"Because I'm usually busy," Hicks replied. "How about this? We play until one of you beats me."

"Sounds good to me, man," Hudson said, setting his beer bottle on the edge of the table. "I'll even play for Drake." He gestured to my bandaged arm.

It was pretty painful to watch Hudson slip with the stick several times. He's pretty good when he's sober, but, that's the thing-he wasn't very sober that night. I mean, he wasn't flat-out smashed, but he definitely couldn't see straight.

I would've enjoyed it more if I wasn't in a sling. Let's be real, it really sucks when it's your own birthday dinner and you can't do much of anything because you hurt yourself, and it's your own fault because you can't deal with your stupid friend's snoring.

There was a point where watching Hicks and Hudson play pool became less entertaining, and I needed to sit down because I wasn't feeling well. Pain was radiating throughout my arm, and I was beginning to think the painkillers were wearing off.

That "good time" didn't last very long. I was surprised at how quickly a sudden surge of pain changed my mood. Some people can keep going when they hurt. I can't.

Of course, I didn't say anything. Everyone else was enjoying themselves and I didn't want to just yank them away from their fun-

"Drake, you OK?"

I looked up to see Hudson staring at me.

"You're really pale, man. Are you feeling alright?"

I shook my head.

Hudson turned to Hicks. "Hey, man, I think we should go home."

"Why?" Hicks glanced at me, then set his stick down to go over to me. "What's going on?"

"He's really pale, man-"

"I can see that. Drake, you feeling OK?"

"I feel a little lightheaded," I replied. "Arm's starting to hurt."

"Right. Let's . . . Let's get back to base and have you lie down." Hicks helped me stand, and led me outside until we got to the bus stop. I wasn't dizzy to the point where I was going to pass out, but it wasn't a comfortable feeling.

When we returned to base, I was taken to sick bay to get a light painkiller dose, and lay down for a few minutes. I was hoping Dietrich would be there, but instead, we had to deal with Ariker again. He glanced at me, then at Hicks, saying, "Do you need something, Corporal?"

"Drake needs another shot, and to lie down for a couple minutes," Hicks replied.

Ariker said nothing as he sterilized a needle and filled it. He approached me, and rolled up my left sleeve. "I don't recommend you come in here every time your arm hurts, Drake. You do not want to become addicted to this."

 _This guy is definitely Mr. Fuzzy._ I winced as he drove the needle into my arm. After pulling the tip out, he helped me onto one of the beds.

Hicks sighed. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Feel better, Drake."

I was left alone with Ariker. The medtech was flipping through what I assumed to be an old medical textbook, and he occasionally glanced at me. I remembered what Lyden said about how Ariker was also conscripted from prison, and I was genuinely curious about his story. Sitting up and adjusting the pillow behind me, I said, "So I heard you're from juvie as well?"

"You'd be correct," Ariker replied without looking at me. There was a long silence before he said, "Why do you bring it up?"

"I . . . I was conscripted out of juvie as well."

Now Ariker looked at me, his unblinking sea-green eyes seemingly piercing into my soul. "Interesting," he said, under his breath. "And what were you in for?"

"Grand theft auto, murder, vehicular manslaughter, and fleeing the scene of a crime. It's a long story, and I don't . . . I don't want to go into any details."

"That's understandable."

"What were you in for?" I asked.

"Arson, as well as killing the couple living inside the home." Ariker glanced at me again. "Like you, I don't wish to divulge the details."

"I guess that makes us even."

"I wouldn't say so. Just because we were both in prison doesn't mean we will be capable of forming any connection beyond what we already have."

I frowned. "Guessing you don't make friends easily."

"Not in the slightest. I prefer it that way, to be honest with you."

"Hey, I didn't think I was going to make friends when I got sent to this unit. It took two years, but now . . . I have more friends than I thought I'd have."

"Good for you." Ariker ended the conversation there, and refused to speak about anything else.

* * *

Late that night, I awoke to hear someone muttering and gasping for breath. I looked over the side of my rack to see Hicks and Spunkmeyer were sleeping soundly, so I looked down at Hudson.

He was shivering and twitching, clearly in the grips of a nightmare. He was hugging his upper chest, and I could see his pillow was soaked in cold sweat.

"Hudson, wake up! You're having a bad dream!" I hissed.

He jolted up, and hit his head on my rack. " _Ow! W-What . . . A-A-Am I . . . I-Is . . ."_

"Relax. Are you OK?"

Hudson took a moment to breathe, and threw his blanket over his shoulders, still shivering. He looked at me with wide gray eyes, and sweat running down his face. "Sorry, man."

"Are you OK?" I repeated.

"I dunno, man, I . . . I saw . . . I was . . . s-suffocating under a pile of snow." He rubbed his face. "It felt so real, man, I-I don't know how to . . . how to-"

"Hey, it's OK," I said. "Believe me, I understand. Do . . . Do you wanna talk about it?"

He shook his head, and covered his face while taking deep breaths.

"I think you'll feel better if you talk about it, buddy."

He shyly nodded, and reached under his rack to grab his boots. "I know they're sleeping, but . . . I'd rather keep this between us, man. The lounge is unlocked, right?"

"Yeah. Grab my boots, too, will ya?" Apone was really hesitant about keeping the lounge unlocked at night, but Hicks said it'd be a good idea as a place for me to go with him if I was having bad dreams and needed to talk to him. I didn't see any issues with taking Hudson there for the same purpose.

Of course, I didn't think anyone else would be up, aside from maybe Bishop, but he never bothers us. After closing the door behind us, I blinked at the glowing and flashing of the arcade machines. Hudson sat on the couch, and I noticed he was significantly less shaken up than a couple minutes ago.

"Was it one of those dreams where you feel like you might die in real life?" I asked.

"Pretty much, man. I . . . We were in this really cold, snowy area, and I tripped and fell in a pile of snow. It was really soft, so I kept sinking deeper in, and I kept screaming for help. No one could hear me, and there was snow getting in my mouth, a-and I . . . I couldn't breathe. Kinda like the dreams you have."

I shrugged. "You were poisoned by the stupid flower, too, so, I wouldn't be surprised if this is just repressed memories of that for you."

"Maybe. It felt too real, man." He looked at me. "Sorry for waking you up, man."

"I probably wasn't sleeping too well anyway," I said. "You're fine."

A weak smile crossed Hudson's face. "You know, I wasn't kidding when I said I hope we're neighbors one day, man."

"You promise not to annoy me every single day?"

"I'll annoy you when you need it. I'll also give you a place to go when Vasquez gets to be too much for you."

"Let's keep that between us, buddy."

We both jumped when the door swung open, and Corporal Neslie was glaring at us. "What the bloody hell're you two doing up?! Get back in bed, now!"

"Apone said-"

"It is quarter-to-one in the morning! Get in bed!"

Neslie was grabbed from behind, and shoved against the wall. Hudson and I got up to see Hicks holding Neslie by his collar.

"Who gave you permission to yell at my Marines?" Hicks shouted.

"Hicks, the basic rules state that no one's supposed to be in any lounge past nine. You of all people-"

"Are they under your command?"

"That doesn't matter-"

"No. Apone and I gave Drake permission to use the lounge after dark. You can go complain with Apone, or Doctor Ranelli. Go ahead, go complain to 'em. Just leave my guys alone. I see you bugging them again, and I'll let Russell know about it. Do you understand?"

"Naturally. I'll be telling Foster about this in the morning." Neslie kept glaring at Hicks as he marched back down the hall to his quarters.

That was the only time I've ever seen Hicks give someone the middle finger. He looked into the room, and said, "Alright, what's going on?"

"Nightmares, man," Hudson said. "Me, not Drake."

"Ah. Listen, next time, just . . . go to me, OK? I really don't mind getting woken up in the middle of the night. Don't need you guys getting in trouble."

"How long are these people supposed to be here?" I asked.

"I don't know. They may be here until we leave."

* * *

I really hoped this wasn't going to be the start of some petty conflict between our unit and theirs. In the morning, I went into the mess hall to find both squads already there. It didn't look like anyone heard about what happened last night, and I hoped that Hudson was going to keep his mouth shut. My hopes dwindled considerably when I saw Lyden sit across from him. _He likes to flirt with her. He's gonna be obnoxious and tell her exactly what happened last night, the dumbass._

I sat next to Hudson so I could pinch him if he got out of hand. Their conversation started out pretty normal, but I could sense that Hudson was being his usual self and bragging about a number of things he may or may not have done.

There was a point where Hudson was inching really close to talking about my "party" last night, and I wanted to pinch him, but then I realized my right arm was in a sling, and I'm sitting to Hudson's left. So, I can't discreetly pinch him.

The good news is that he didn't get very far, but the bad news is that big interruption was Foster storming into the room and yanking Hicks upright. I'm not going to go into too much detail about what they started yelling at each other about, because, if you've been reading, you know why. Foster was not happy about how Hicks berated his corporal, and Hicks immediately tried to explain that Neslie needed to focus on his own men.

It didn't take very long for Apone to break them apart, and he didn't hesitate in telling Foster off. "You keep your Goddamn focus on your own Goddamn Marines, and if you have a problem with one of _my_ Marines, you come to _me!_ Is that understood?"

Foster reluctantly replied, "Yes, Apone. As long as your Marines don't act like they own this place. That's the exact bloody vibe I'm getting from each one of your boneheaded grunts."

No further words were said, until we heard an unsubtle "Asshat," from Ariker.

"Who?" Foster replied.

"You, Sergeant," Ariker said, staring at him. "If you and Neslie had simply listened to Hicks your first night here, maybe this incident wouldn't have happened."

I glanced at Ariker, not expecting this from him at all. He returned to his breakfast, and I was certain Foster was going to scream at him. That wasn't the case. Instead, Foster sat down as well, and there was complete silence for the rest of the hour.

* * *

As the day moved on, I had a feeling that things were going to start going sour between the squads, and, to be honest, I really didn't care. I just wanted to get through my month of recovery without going insane.

I found Ferro in the laundry room, tossing wet clothes into a dryer. I kicked the door shut, and sat on top of the washer next to the one she was using. "You look bored."

"There's twice as much shit to do with two units," Ferro replied. "One of them should be in here as well."

"I could help you if-"

"No. You should focus on getting better, and not straining yourself."

"Look, I'm really bored, OK? I need something to do."

"Talk to me, Drake. That's it. This'll go by quicker if we just talk."

I sighed, looking up at the ceiling, which is covered in dusty piping. "I'm guessing you heard about what happened last night."

"Neslie caught you and Hudson in the lounge. Hicks tried to defend you. Neslie tattled to Foster. Now everyone kinda doesn't like each other. Is that right, or am I exaggerating?"

"No, that's pretty much it," I said. "I don't like these new guys as much as anyone, but I don't want any fighting between the units."

"I think we all feel that way." Ferro looked at me. "I'm pretty sure that some of them are really nice. We don't even know half of them. Their pilot seems like a good guy."

"Is he the one wearing a turtleneck in the gym?"

"Yeah. Doesn't seem close with Lyden, not like me and Spunkmeyer."

"And we can see why."

Ferro was quiet for a few minutes. "There's a lot we don't know about these guys. Can't be too quick to dismiss all of them."

"No, but first impressions matter a lot."

"True."

* * *

We searched for this pilot after Ferro finished up the laundry load, and found him in the base courtyard, with a pipe in his mouth. Compared to the rest of Foster's unit, this guy seemed genuinely warm and friendly, waving us over to the table he was seated at. "I don't nip at you! Have a seat."

"Thank God," I muttered.

"Right. I take it the rest of my comrades have been a little antsy the last couple of days. Not something we particularly enjoy, eh?" The pilot held out his hand. "Corporal Vedder, at your service. And you are-?"

"Private Drake," I said, gesturing to myself, "and Corporal Ferro."

"You're the poor soul someone said has post-traumatic stress, correct?"

I nodded.

"Ah. No further questions. Not an easy thing to recover from, I suppose."

I shook my head.

"Yeah. Anyways, I take it you came out to get some peace and quiet as well?"

"No, actually, we . . . we were looking for you."

"That's odd considering you didn't know my name till ten seconds ago."

"I know, but we're annoyed with what's been going on between our squads, and Ferro said you seemed like you might be . . . I dunno, quieter."

"Well, I don't see any harm in that, I guess." Vedder put his pipe back in his mouth. "Don't think it was right of Neslie to start such a petty argument regarding the bloody lounge."

"Didn't Hicks explain a few rules are bent . . . because of me?" I asked.

"I must've been in my room when he was talking to Foster and Neslie. That type of thing isn't something that should be overlooked."

"It's a stupid thing to fight over," Ferro muttered.

"Of course it is," Vedder replied. "But, it happens. I'm sure things will right themselves by the end of the day. This type of spat never lasts very long. Don't take too personally." He smiled at both of us. "Let's not dwell too much on it, though."

I glanced at Ferro, figuring we had gotten our answer about Vedder. When Ferro got up to do something else, I looked at Vedder, and asked, "What can you tell me about Ariker?"

"Not much, to be honest. He's reliable as a medtech, and it's difficult to tell at times whether or not he feels much remorse for the things he's done in the past. Why do you ask?"

"I came from juvie as well, and . . . I dunno. I got curious, I guess. Vasquez is the only other Marine I know who came from prison."

"I can say from experience that it's an extremely risky program. There are a few instances where Marines have been hurt or killed by recruits coming from prison. In fact, they're making changes to it based on your records. If you've been placed in solitary multiple times, if you've hurt other inmates, things like that, you can be barred from entering the USCM. Ariker came close, but he passed a mental health exam in order to get in." Vedder took his pipe out of his mouth again. "I guess my point is that just because you come from a similar situation, doesn't mean you will find a . . . a kindred spirit, so to say. Don't assume that Ariker will warm up to you just because you're both from juvenile prison."

I nodded. "So, I should just give up, then?"

"I wouldn't say 'give up.' I'd say, 'Be a little more subtle in your approach.' Take interest in his work without being nosy." Vedder gestured to my arm. "Next time you have your injury examined, ask a few questions about what he's doing. Not stupid questions, but, you know, curious ones."

"What classifies as a stupid question to him?"

Vedder smirked. "That I can't answer, Drake. You'll have to play the good old game of trial and error. However, before you embark on some journey to soften Ariker, take your own friends into consideration. Do you really want to waste time and energy on someone who's clearly made it known he wishes to be alone, or would you rather continue improving the relationship you've forged with Private Hudson? I've seen you two in the gym."

"I'm pretty sure you've also seen him with Lyden. When she's around, he . . . ignores me."

"Bringing that up with him is going to be leagues easier than befriending Ariker, Drake, trust me,"

* * *

 _Question: How has Drake improved with his self-pity? Is it obvious he still needs to work on that?_


	5. Chapter 5

Vedder really was trying to extend a hand of friendship between units, and showed that by sitting with us during meals. He seemed genuinely curious about each of us, but I wasn't very willing to talk to him about my life; I barely know him, and there were certain things I didn't want to discuss in front of so many people.

I really hated being cooped up in the base, and I guess my immune system couldn't take it anymore, either. A few mornings after we talked to Vedder, I woke up feeling like someone smashed my face with a hammer, and every muscle in my body was sore. I could barely breathe, and my chest hurt with every breath I managed to get in.

It was pretty much impossible for me to get down from my rack, so Hicks ordered me to stay in sick bay until I got better. He sat with me while Dietrich looked me over, and Hudson was waving at us through the door window.

"Definitely gonna keep an eye on you," Dietrich muttered as she shone a light down my throat. "Your tonsils are swollen up pretty good. Might have to come out."

"Too old for that shit," I muttered.

"No, you're not. If they're infected, they're infected, and if you start having problems swallowing, they're coming out."

Ariker quietly came up behind her, strapping on a pair of latex gloves and a mask. "Let me see," he said, clicking on another light. "What was his temperature, Dietrich?"

"A hundred-point-three."

"Nasty enough fever, I'd say. He's got pus pockets covering those damn things. Should probably have 'em out now. Although-" Ariker glanced at Dietrich, "we could probably give him a strong antibiotic. See if that clears it up."

"How's it gonna react with all the painkillers you have him on?"

"I wouldn't think anything major. He'll be very sluggish and woozy for a few days, but it's not like he's missing anything anyway." Ariker stood up.

"He can't fucking swallow those enormous pills," Dietrich said.

"There's a liquid variant. It's somewhat weaker than the pills, so he'll have to receive two doses a day. I'll be right back."

We watched Ariker jog down to the storage room, and Dietrich sighed while folding her arms over her chest. "If that medicine doesn't work, I'll put you under and take your tonsils out myself."

Hicks smirked. "I had mine out during boot camp. The first question the doc asked when I came around was 'When was the last time you had any ice cream?' I said, 'I can't remember.' He replied, 'That's OK. For the next two days, you can have all the ice cream you want.' It was nice having a large bowl of soft-serve vanilla for breakfast." Hicks patted my shoulder. "I'll make sure you get some ice cream if you have surgery, Drake."

Ariker came back, shaking a small bottle. "We don't have to force-feed him, do we?"

"No," Dietrich replied. "Right, Drake?"

I nodded.

Ariker searched the cabinets for a large enough cup before measuring out the right dosage. "Down the hatch," he said, handing me the cup.

The medicine was insanely bitter. I coughed and spit part of it out. Hicks grabbed the cup as I endured a painfully dry coughing fit.

Ariker didn't look happy. At all. He glared at Hicks, who was holding my shoulder as I coughed. It felt so dry that I was certain my insides had turned into sandpaper. When I relaxed, he gave the cup back.

"You OK?" he asked. "Think you can take it?"

I nodded, and finally managed to swallow every last drop. Again, Ariker wasn't happy, and he seemed to be struggling with how to express that.

"If you do that again, we're force-feeding you," he said.

Hicks glared at him. "Absolutely not. You'll send him into a Goddamn flashback."

"He needs his medicine somehow! You can't keep shielding him from everything because of his PTSD. It's not practical, nor is it going to help him. Back off."

Part of me was surprised that Hicks ended up backing down. Then again, he knew it was probably a good idea to not coddle me. He didn't say another word, and decided to leave with the two medtechs. "I'm getting some breakfast," he said. "You, get some rest, and play nice with Hudson." He gestured for Hudson to enter the room, and jabbed him in the chest. "Behave, got it?"

"Got it, man," Hudson replied. "Everything OK?"

"So far, yeah. Drake might have to have his tonsils out, though-"

"I was talking about you, man. You seem annoyed."

"I'm . . . fine. Disagreements over bullshit and whatnot." Hicks slammed the door behind him.

Hudson stared at the door for another second, then shrugged and grabbed a chair. "How're you doing, man? You like you got hit by a bus."

"I _feel_ like I've been hit by a bus," I rasped, trying to sit up. "Did they leave any water?"

"No, but I'll get you a cup." Hudson took a paper cup from a dispenser by the sink, and filled it with cold water. "You're gonna have your tonsils out?"

"They don't know. I just got some medicine in me. If it works, fine, but if not, the tonsils are gone."

"Man, you are late to that party. I had mine out when I was twelve. You get lots of ice cream after, though-"

"Hicks told me. He had his out in boot camp."

Hudson snorted. "Boot camp surgery sucks, man. They pulled my fucking wisdom teeth when I was there." He smirked. "I think you'll be fine. Bet you're hungry, though. We had chicken and waffles for breakfast. I think there's still some leftovers-"

"You didn't eat it all?"

"No. Bishop would let me. I'll go get a tray for you, man." Hudson got up, and bolted from the room. Twenty minutes later, he came back with a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of tea. "Dietrich said that stuff wouldn't be good for your throat, man. Said oatmeal and tea would be better."

"That's OK. Thanks."

"Want me to stay with you?"

"Don't you wanna go hang out with Lyden?"

Hudson frowned. "No. Why would I do that?"

"Because you like her even though you have a girlfriend."

"That's not true, man. We're friends, but I don't 'like-like' her. Besides, you're sick and you're probably bored in here. I'll stay with you all day if you want." Hudson rested his arms on the side of the bed.

It didn't take very long for the medicine to start kicking in, and I was struggling to keep my eyes open. Eventually, I was fast asleep, and it turns out Hudson fell asleep as well and was snoring with his face planted in his arm.

It has been almost a month since I slept in a bed with Vasquez. I miss being able to talk to her about everything and snuggling with her. We see each other every day, but it's not the same as when we could get together at night and really talk. It's almost like we've been separated again.

I probably wouldn't have started crying if it wasn't for the combination of powerful medication and a high fever. But, yeah, I started crying because I miss my girlfriend. How much sadder can you get?

Hudson lifted his head when he heard me sobbing, and said, "What's wrong, man?"

"Hudson . . . where's Vasquez?"

"I don't know, man. You feeling OK?"

"I miss her."

Hudson sighed. "You don't wanna risk her getting sick, do you?"

"Then why are _you_ here?"

"Because I don't have my tonsils, man. Just relax. You'll get to see her soon."

* * *

I managed to sleep for most of the day, so I was completely unaware of how irritable Hicks had gotten since being told to back off by Ariker. I was partially conscious when he came in to get Hudson, but I still heard their conversation.

"Go get dinner, Hudson," Hicks said.

"OK, man. You doing alright? You still look pissed," Hudson replied.

"I am pissed." Hicks clenched his fists, and sighed. "Can you . . . keep this between us?"

"Yeah."

Hicks closed the door. "This morning, when I was watching Dietrich and Ariker treat Drake, I told Ariker that force-feeding Drake his medicine would send him into a flashback, because, you know, it involves putting a syringe in the back of his throat and if he panics, he could choke on the syringe. If he chokes, he'll panic even more, and he'll . . . relive the moments he doesn't want to relive. Well, Ariker told to me to back off, and said that . . . my sheltering of Drake isn't going to help him recover. I-I know that there are times where I have to back off, but . . . I'm just afraid-"

"You're afraid that if you back off too much, he'll suffer, and you don't want to watch him suffer."

"Yes. Exactly . . . I don't . . . want to see him suffer."

"Try not to take everything so seriously, I guess, man. I mean, I dunno what else could help. I'm sorry.

"It's OK. I know I . . . need to back off."

"Hicks? Do you need to just talk to someone?" Hudson gripped Hicks's shoulder.

"You'll listen?"

"Yep."

Hicks rubbed his face. "When . . . my friend died, I promised I'd never let anyone under my watch hurt themselves. I'm afraid that if I back off too much, that could send the wrong message to Drake, and . . ."

"I don't think that'll happen, man. You're smart; you know when a good time to back off is and when it ain't." Hudson gave Hicks a brotherly squeeze. "You're being too hard on yourself."

Hicks didn't respond. He still looked frustrated, and silently gestured for Hudson to go down to the mess hall. After Hudson left, Hicks sat by my bed. He didn't look sure if I was conscious or asleep or whatnot. In fact, he looked almost sorry, like he knew I heard him talking to Hudson and wished I didn't.

I can definitely see how Hicks has been crucial to my recovery from post-traumatic stress. Without him, I probably wouldn't have been brave enough to say that I need help. I could've gotten worse and worse to the point where I may want to just end my own life. I could've thrown away so much.

I really don't know what's going to happen to me down the road, and I still struggle to have a slightly more positive outlook on my life, but I have been trying to keep that tiny glimmer of hope alive. That glimmer of hope is microscopic compared to the mountain of guilt and regret I'm carrying on my shoulders. It can't survive inside me just yet.

I wouldn't have gotten where I am if Hicks didn't pick up that my problems are more than just parts of my personality. For the longest time, that's what everyone assumed, and they accepted it. They accepted that I'm easily irritated, I'm a loner, I'm a pessimist, I'm very grumpy, and I snap at people for no clear reason. They didn't go any deeper than that, simply because _I didn't let them_. I didn't think anyone would understand, or care, or be able to help.

Hicks understood completely. Like me, he had his own issues long before something awful in his life sent his mental health into a tailspin. Like me, he didn't think anyone was able to understand or help him. I just feel better now that I have help and someone who gets me.

I think Hicks knows when to back off, and I think he's right when he told Ariker that attempting to force-feed me medication wouldn't be a good idea, not this early in my therapy.

I also think Vedder's right when he said that just because Ariker and I came into the Marines through a similar situation, it doesn't mean we will click right off the bat. In fact, he's starting to make me nervous. Too nervous.

* * *

I went back to sleep after a really light dinner of hot broth and some bread. Around seven-thirty, I awoke to hear happy shouting and laughter coming from the lounge, down the hall. Despite being really tired and still feeling like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my head, I wanted to be in the lounge with everyone else. You'd think Hicks or Hudson would be keeping me company, but that wasn't the case that night, so I was really bored and lonely.

Ariker entered the room a few minutes later, muttering something about how no one was able to keep it down. He pulled the medicine bottle from his pocket, and shook it. Instead of measuring the bitter syrupy mix into a cup, he immediately went for the syringe.

"This is kinda extreme for a chest infection," I said.

"Life isn't fair, Drake," Ariker replied. "Every way in which you will recover contains a significant amount of pain and suffering on your end. If you have to have your bloody tonsils out, you'll have to be off the painkillers for your arm for several days before the operation. You will hurt. Badly. You and Hicks should be thanking me instead of painting me the fucking devil for 'inducing' your PTSD. I do a lot. I do a lot without being thanked. Maybe my ways aren't kind and soft like the world would like them to be, but at least I'm willing to put my best foot forward in order to help you."

Looking back on this, I know Ariker has a point. But, in that moment, I was nothing short of terrified. He knew I was going to struggle, so he pulled the restraints out from under the bed and strapped me down. He picked up the syringe after putting on a pair of latex gloves, and grabbed my lower jaw to force my mouth open. He stuck the syringe in as far back in my throat as possible. My gag reflex was kicking in, and I came really close to spitting medicine all over Ariker. He continued pushing, and I was convinced I was choking. I felt like this was too similar to my nightmares where I feel like something was in the back of my throat and I couldn't breathe.

Only this time, something _actually was_ in the back of my throat.

Unlike in my nightmares, I could breathe once the syringe was pulled out. I breathed hard as Ariker removed the straps, and I could hear the all-too-familiar sounds of someone slamming a defibrillator against my chest. I heard the doctors' panicked voices as my vitals went nuts.

The glimmer of hope I was talking about earlier? It seemed to get a little bit dimmer. I felt like I had been set back.

* * *

That night, I didn't sleep. It was deathly silent, it was dark, and I couldn't relax. Doctor Ranelli has said that therapy isn't magic; I have to take our conversations and exercises and apply them. Have I been doing that? A little, to be truthful.

I know I am far past the stage where I acknowledge I have a problem. I have people who can help me. Am I relying too much on them instead of myself? What am I actually seeking? Am I searching for comfort instead of help?

 _This just falls under the problem that I'm trying to run from my past._ I rubbed my face, the feeling of failure enveloping me. My instant response was to talk to Hicks. Did he know how this felt? Should I bother talking to him, or should I force myself to deal with this on my own?

Absolutely not. Every time I try to do something on my own, I realize I need help, and I break down. I'm going to Hicks.

I pressed a button on my bedside to call someone. A minute later, Bishop opened the door, and said, "Can I help you?"

"Can you go wake up Hicks, please?" I asked.

Bishop nodded before disappearing. Ten minutes later, he came back with Hicks in tow. "Anything else?"

"Two cups of hot chocolate," Hicks replied, adjusting the waistband of his robe. "Thanks." He looked mixed on waking up at one in the morning, but he seemed to be resisting the urge to get upset. "What's going on?"

I struggled in wording what I wanted to say. This felt surreal, almost dream-like. "I don't think I'm progressing that much in my recovery. In fact, I . . . I think I may've set myself back. Earlier, Ariker had to give me the medicine again, and, naturally, I panicked because he didn't give it to me in a cup. I don't think I should've panicked. I'm the one setting myself back. I'm the one who's just relying on everyone to help me instead of helping myself."

"Well, then, good night." Hicks stood up.

"Wait, what?"

"If you think you're relying too much on your friends, then fend for yourself, Drake."

"I wanted to ask if you know how to deal with this-"

"I don't have all the answers! Y-You need to learn that none of us are always gonna be there for you! There will be times where you're gonna be on your own! What's gonna happen when you're a civilian? I can't just pack up and leave base or a fucking combat zone to come hold your hand! Look, it's _one o'clock in the fucking morning!_ I want to sleep! I-I can't keep doing this! It's my fault! I'm the one who sacrificed my wants and needs for you! I'm the one holding you back! You're not gonna move on unless I stop protecting you! It starts now; no more waking me up, no more crying to me about your issues, no more. I'm done. If Ariker's gotta shove shit in the back of your throat for you to get better, then let him do it!" Hicks stormed out of sick bay, past a somewhat confused Bishop, who decided to leave the hot chocolate in a spot where Hudson would find it if he came wandering around after using the bathroom.

* * *

 _Question: From another character's perspective (i.e., Hudson's, Vasquez's), does it appear Drake is relying too much on Hicks, or that Hicks is too protective of Drake?_


	6. Chapter 6

I really shouldn't be surprised that Hicks stormed out of the room, and, to be honest, I did feel bad about waking him up at an ungodly hour.

Around seven, Ariker came into the room, shaking that little medicine bottle. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

I was really groggy, so it took me awhile to answer. "I feel like shit, if you want the simple answer."

"I want a more specific answer." Ariker dipped the syringe in the bottle.

"OK. My throat still hurts. My chest still hurts. I have the chills. And my stomach feels like I'm rocking around on a tiny boat in the fucking ocean."

"Not a big change from yesterday, I see." Ariker grabbed a penlight. "Open your mouth. I want to see your tonsils." He held my lower jaw open, and shined the light on my tonsils. "Still red, still swollen, still covered with pus. If we don't see any change in three days, they're coming out." He shut the light off, and took the syringe. He paused, and knelt to get the restraints.

"Wait," I said. "Don't use the straps. I can take it."

Ariker shrugged, and put the tip in the back of my throat, squeezing all the medicine out. He looked a little surprised that I barely struggled. "You were expecting this, weren't you?" he said.

"Yeah. Last night was bad, but . . . now that I know I'm . . . I'm mostly fine, it's . . . it's not a big deal. I can do this."

"You're usually a coward about this. Does this have to do with your corporal?"

"Not talking to you about that."

"Ah. He seemed rather upset about something. Didn't know if you were having a spat."

"I said, I'm not talking to you about what goes on between me and Hicks."

"So you are having a spat."

"You fucking started it."

"Oh? Why, Drake, are we shooting right for the blame game? Not blaming yourself, not blaming Hicks, but a third party."

I sat up, glaring at him. "Don't talk to _me_ about blame and guilt! I've dealt with enough over the last six years, and I'm tired of it!"

Ariker barely reacted to my sudden outburst. He cleaned the syringe, and looked at me with his large sea-green eyes. "Blame game. Blame game, Drake."

"Kiss my ass!" I yelled.

"That is certainly not on my to-do list."

* * *

I spent most of the day playing card games with Hudson, who told me about what happened when Hicks went back to bed last night.

"He looked really pissed, and he was slamming doors so of course that woke me up. I looked at him and said, 'Everything OK?' and he said, 'No. I don't want to deal with Drake's crying at one in the fucking morning.' I was, you know, confused, so I replied, 'Does he need help?' and he says, 'No. He needs to deal with his shit on his own, because he's not always gonna have someone with him later on in life.' I decided that arguing with him wasn't the best idea, so I just went back to sleep."

I sighed. "I think he's serious."

"It was one in the morning, man. I wouldn't be surprised if he came in here to apologize."

"I've woken him up before, and he had no problem with it. I think this has to do with Ariker. I guess Ariker made him think about what he's doing in terms of me and my recovery, and now . . . he feels it's better to just let me fend for myself. He's not wrong; I have to learn how to deal with my problems on my own."

"You already did that, man. You went untreated for months, and look what that did to you."

"OK, number one, I had no idea if this was actually PTSD or not. Second, I was scared to death of being kicked out. I'm talking about what to do now that I'm diagnosed, receiving therapy, and under no threat of being removed from the Marines."

Hudson took a sip of his coffee, and stared blankly at his cards while thinking. "I don't think it makes a difference, man. You can't go through this on your own."

"What if I don't have a choice? What's gonna happen when I'm a civilian, and I . . . I'm at a job, and something happens where I panic and I don't know anybody and there's nothing I can do but try to push on?"

"Well-" Hudson glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, "you and I know that you want to get out with Vasquez. You'll have her at home. I think you'll be able to work things out with her. Also, I don't think Hicks told you to stop getting therapy, man. Maybe things'll be vastly different when you get out."

"I would hope so, but knowing me, I shouldn't get too hopeful."

Hudson shrugged. "You know what? If Hicks doesn't wanna help you anymore, you can always go to me, man."

"I can't do that to you."

"You won't be saying that when you really need someone to talk to. Don't be ashamed." Hudson reached over to ruffle my hair. "Think about it; when we're civvies again, we won't be limited to two or three days for leave. We can go someplace for a whole week if we want, you know, get away from the wives."

I smirked. "I still haven't decided if I want you as best man for my wedding."

"I'd be hurt if you didn't pick me, man. Wait, who else you got in mind?"

"You, Delhoun, and Hicks. I . . . don't think Hicks is in the running anymore."

"When was the last time you spoke to Delhoun?"

"He sent me a letter last week, asking whether or not I enjoyed the Christmas party, let me know his Annexers are doing OK, and that Winnie misses me. I kinda hope we don't grow too far apart. He's . . . done a lot for me."

"At least you're in contact, man. Still, though, I'm the best choice for best man."

"Alright. Can you keep your hands off the cake?"

"I can do that. Wait, what kinda cake will it be?"

"I haven't decided yet. Plus, Vasquez and I have to agree on a flavor. Your job's not gonna be easy. You'd be in charge of quite a bit."

Hudson thought for a moment. "Anything for you, man. Although . . . would you be best man at my wedding?"

"Yeah, sure." I grinned. "As long as Miranda is your bride."

"I think she will be, man. We actually had a video chat a few days ago, and . . . we forgive each other over what happened at the Christmas party. I told her that I wish I wasn't so drunk, and hopefully, we can meet up again and try to start fresh."

"So, you guys aren't overly embarrassed that you had sex and she's no longer a virgin?"

"Oh, we're a little embarrassed, but I guess that kinda lessened when we actually talked about it and figured that since, you know, nothing bad happened, we can move on. I mean, I know I've . . . I've made a bunch of mistakes in the past, and . . . you know, when I was brand-spankin'-new to the Marines, I can't even begin to tell you the shit I did on leave."

"Are you afraid of your past coming back to bite you hard in the ass?"

"Yes and no. I know not to do some of the stuff I did ever again, but I'm kind of afraid of what Miranda will say if I tell her. She has an idea because you and Vasquez told her, but I don't want her to assume that I'll go back to being the guy who does nothing but one-night stands every weekend, that I'm gonna go cheat on her every single time I got out on my own."

"What I'm getting from this is that when you leave the Marines, you're ready to settle down. You got, what, four years left on your contract? That's plenty of time for you to add as many layers as you can to your relationship with Miranda."

"I'll be twenty-nine, Drake. You don't think that's too old to settle down?"

Now it was my turn to reach over and mess with his hair. "No. Not like you got much of a choice. You're not getting out unless you get badly injured or you develop mental health problems that could effect your performance in combat. Or you do something stupid enough to earn a dishonorable discharge. I don't think you'll do that, though. Not while I have anything to say about it."

"You got a point, man. Geez, I don't even know if Miranda and I will stay together. What if . . . we break up?"

"You'll find someone else."

"What if I don't?"

"Live next door to me and you can babysit my kid whenever Vasquez and I go out. I'll invite you over for Thanksgiving and Christmas and birthdays and stuff like that so you don't have to be alone all the time. Get a pet. There's loads of animals to choose from. Hell, Delhoun will probably give you a baby Annexer if you ask nicely."

Hudson smirked. "Well, man, let's hope I don't have to resort to that."

* * *

I was glad that I got to spend most of the day talking to Hudson about what we wanted to do when we got out. For once, I was feeling more hopeful than I usually do, but, that quickly disappeared when Hudson was ordered to leave.

As Hudson was leaving, Hicks came in, looking unsure of himself. He closed the door, and took a deep breath before grabbing a chair and sitting next to my bed. "Alright, let's . . . let's talk." He struggled to put his words together, so I wondered if he had spent all day thinking about this, and worrying about this. "Drake, do I . . . ever seem like I'm overprotective of you? Have I really pushed my boundaries when it comes to helping you? Are you . . . too tethered to me, emotionally?"

I would've snorted, but that hurt at the moment. "No. I don't think you're overprotective and I'm not tethered to you emotionally. I think you should've heard Ariker out when he brought up giving me the medicine through a syringe, maybe not say anything at all. He gave it to me this morning through the damn syringe, and I was fine, because I knew it was coming. Maybe if you talked to me instead of _for_ me, we wouldn't have this issue."

"Well, you're right. Perhaps, that's the problem." Hicks turned his body to face me. "Let's-Let's work this out and-"

"Alright, stop; you look flustered, and you need to calm down. Why does this bother you so much?" I sat up, and tried crossing my legs to get a little blood moving. "If you're worried about me contemplating suicide, you can stop worrying. I'm not. I know I've got people who care about me. I know who I can turn to if I ever feel like ending my life is the best option. I want you to still be one of those people."

"Stop talking for a minute. Just, stop, please."

"Why? You're feeling sorry for yourself."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I'm, for once, being perfectly reasonable. You're so angry about Ariker, that your mind's a little clouded. Shut up, and listen to me-"

"No! You need to shut up! You need to just-to just stop talking! S-Stop trying to guilt-trip me into-"

"'Guilt-trip?' Where the hell is that coming from?"

"Jesus, I said, 'shut up,' didn't I?!" Hicks abruptly stood up. "Can't do this anymore."

"Can't do what?"

"Put up with you!" Hicks yelled as he stormed out of the room.

Ariker was walking in as Hicks was leaving. He glanced at me. "Having issues?"

"You son-of-a-bitch," I said. "You're setting this up for your own fucking amusement, aren't you?"

Ariker stared down at me, his big, unblinking eyes seeming to glow. "I believe Hicks is right; you do need to shut up."

He took his time in preparing my medicine, and I noticed it tasted a little different when he shoved it in the back of my throat. For a brief moment, I panicked, until I felt everything slow down, and drifted into sleep.

* * *

When I awoke, I had no idea what time it was, but I knew it was late at night given how dark the room was. Although I would later find out what I experienced was just a really bad dream because Ariker had mixed a sleeping medication into my antibiotic, everything felt a little too real.

Dizzily, I got out of bed. That was kinda the first sign this was a nightmare because I'm hooked up to a few things, not to mention having only one usable arm makes things more complicated. I was overcome with intense nausea, and I felt like someone was whacking my head against the wall.

There's a curtain separating my bed from someone else's. In reality, there's no one occupying it. In my nightmare, I was greeted by a sickly Hudson, looking half-dead. He wasn't moving, save for a very shallow rising and falling of his chest.

I suddenly felt weak, and collapsed. I awoke for real to feel someone helping me back into my own bed, and heard Dietrich say, "Come on . . . work with me, Drake." When my vision cleared, she was hooking me back up to all the monitors, and glancing over her shoulder at the door. "Hey, you awake?"

I nodded.

"You must've been sleepwalking. Found you laying next to the bed behind the curtain."

It took me a few minutes for my brain to become a little less fuzzy. "Hudson's OK?"

"He's enjoying a big breakfast in the city, that's all I know. He took Ferro and Vasquez with him and they're having a few hours off, lucky bastards."

I didn't know how to feel about that. "Did he ask about me?"

"Drake, you're sick. No one with a lick of common sense is going to ask you to hang out with them right now."

"But, did he ask how I am?"

"No. Everyone thought you were still sleeping." Dietrich measured my medicine, and poured it into a cup. "Do you feel like this stuff has been helping?"

"Not really. I thought Ariker said that was powerful."

"Well, take this as a sign, Drake; you need your tonsils out." Dietrich opened my mouth. "Yeah, if we let this go any longer, you're gonna have problems swallowing, not to mention this infection could spread down to your chest."

"What about all the painkillers?"

"You won't get any today. Let your body flush it out." She gave me a sympathetic look. "You'll feel a lot better afterwards, I promise."

"Is it bad to say that I'm nervous?"

"No. Everyone's nervous when they have surgery. It's not a big deal. You worried about your PTSD?"

I nodded.

"I'll make sure Hicks is with you when you start coming out of anesthesia."

"I don't think he'll want to be there."

"Why? He's been putting a lot of effort into helping you."

"Not . . . anymore. He's starting to think the best way for me to recover is to learn on my own."

"Jesus Christ, is this because of what Ariker said a couple days ago?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Ariker is a bitter old man in a young man's body. That's what I've noticed. He doesn't know you. He doesn't know Hicks. He has no fucking say in how you recover from your PTSD. Don't know why you two would think he knows better."

"How do we convey that to Hicks?"

"Tell you what; I'll talk to Apone about what's going on. I'm sure he'll have a talk with Hicks. Hell, he might even talk to Doctor Ranelli. I don't think he'll be very happy to hear about this."

"I hope so. Wouldn't mind seeing Ranelli get angry with Ariker." I smirked.

"Who knows?" Dietrich put the cup in the sink after I drank the medicine. "I'm gonna go get some breakfast for you."

"Thanks. When you see Hudson, let him know I wanna see him."

"Sure thing."

* * *

Hudson made the mistake of telling Vasquez when he found out I was going to have my tonsils removed. She immediately headed down to sick bay, and decided to sit with me for the rest of the day. To tell you the truth, I wasn't in a very romantic mood because I was having a dull, throbbing ache in my arm, but I appreciated spending time with her anyway.

With Hudson watching the door, Vasquez and I didn't say a word as we tried to cuddle. I managed to kiss her despite being in pain, and whispered, "I'm gonna be OK, baby."

"You better be. Getting sick of you hurting yourself."

"Hey, I'm a natural at it. Look . . . I'm getting used to this place, but I'm not used to not seeing you every night."

"You're a sap, Drake."

"Don't make me laugh. It hurts."

"There's a lot I'd do to you right now, but you hurt, so I'll wait till you're better."

Hudson snorted, and whistled.

"No one invited you to the conversation, jackass."

"Sorry, Vasquez. Aw, shit, Ariker's coming."

Vasquez immediately sat back in her chair, and Hudson pulled his up next to her, making it look like they were both just talking to me. Ariker strolled in, and gestured for them both to leave. His expression really hadn't changed, but I could tell he wasn't happy.

"Lovely surprise to hear that Dietrich's ordered your tonsils out," he said. "Even though I said that it would take a little bit of time for this medication to work. None of you in this bloody unit are patient. None of you are reasonable. None of you are even grateful for the shit done for you."

Hudson turned to face Ariker, gray eyes glowing with rage. "You listen up, dickhead. You haven't known any of us long enough to know that! Quit picking on Drake!" He wound up to give Ariker a swift punch in the jaw, but Vasquez held him back. "I'll get ya later!" Hudson yelled as he was pulled from the room. "You're gonna regret all this, man! Get ready to kiss the floor!"

Without so much as a flinch, Ariker looked at me. "You're all animals here."

* * *

 _Question: How do Hicks and Hudson's methods differ when helping Drake?_


	7. Chapter 7

I didn't get a lot of sleep that night because of how bad I hurt. There were several points where I felt like this was just torture, and I wanted out.

I could spend pages describing how much pain I was in. The simplest way I can put it is that it felt like someone was smashing a hammer against my right arm. That's all you really need to know. It was made worse by the fact that Ariker had driven a serious wedge in between me and Hicks, and I honestly don't care why, because I just want it to stop.

Dietrich tested my piss in the morning to make sure I had flushed the painkillers out, and she declared I was ready for anesthesia. The lack of painkillers, plus being denied food, made me extra cranky and uncomfortable. I was basically ready to beat someone into the ground at that point.

I was moved outside the operating room for nearly a half-hour before Dietrich, Ariker, and a group of on-site corpsmen were ready to take out my tonsils. While waiting, I heard Ariker bringing up a last ditch effort to put me back on the antibiotic.

"It's too late. We've already made the preparations. He'll get better a lot faster without his fucking tonsils," Dietrich replied. "Look, I don't know what you're up to, but you're getting under the skin of everyone here-"

"What I do around here is none of your business," Ariker replied. "I tried making it so Drake didn't have to suffer because of his arm. You people have no patience around here, and you seem to-"

"You've been here, what, a week? Are you just declaring yourself an expert on what _my_ unit is like? You're an ass. How the hell do the people in your own unit put up with you?"

"Ah, so, now you're assuming what my own unit is like. Wonderful. I can see now that it's going to take a very long time for anything I say to get across to you, and, before you say anything else, might I remind you that we have a man out there awaiting surgery and we should get him in here as soon as possible. I merely tried to present another option, just to see if you had thought about it. I see you haven't. Let's get on with this operation, shall we?"

I didn't say anything as I was brought into the operating room. I glanced around at the lights and machinery, and I could dimly hear someone yelling, "Clear!" before slamming the defibrillator paddles down on my chest. "Hey, Dietrich?" I said.

"What?" she replied.

"I'm fucking scared. I'm hearing those Goddamn voices. How long's this gonna last? How long am I gonna have to live through my nightmares again?"

"It shouldn't be too long," Ariker said. "It's actually quite rare that you dream while under general anesthesia."

"You better be right. You're not my favorite person right now."

Ariker was silent, but he didn't make any moves to shut me up. "I believe, when you begin recovering, we should have a talk. Just the two of us."

I decided to remain silent. Well, I didn't have much of a choice, because one of the corpsmen placed the anesthesia mask over my face. I was told to take a deep breath, and I felt the world slowly fall away.

* * *

I may not have dreamed while under the knife, but I did dream while recovering, and my dreams were not pleasant.

Of course, I dreamed about being inches away from death. Of course, I dreamed about the incident in the orbital lab. It replayed, second by second. It felt too real.

It didn't come as a surprise that I felt really weak and tired when I finally woke up. I didn't have the energy to panic or worry. Hell, the only thing I felt was an intense soreness and rawness in the back of my throat. It felt like someone had rubbed the area with sandpaper. I couldn't talk, which was fine; no one cares what I have to say anyway.

A few hours after I came around, Dietrich allowed people to see me. Hudson was the first, and he went a little overboard with the get-well presents. He got me packets of fancy hot chocolate, cold pudding cups, more blank journals, a lap desk for me to write in those blanket journals, a card signed by the whole unit, and a flower he picked somewhere in the courtyard and decided to put in a plastic cup of water.

It really hurt to smile and laugh, but I appreciated his effort anyway. I tore out some sheets from my journal to write him a thank-you, and that it was hurting to smile.

Maybe it was all the drugs I was on, but I was wondering about how everyone felt about me not being able to talk for a couple days. I tried to listen attentively to what people had to say when they sat down to see me throughout the day, which was difficult because I was really sleepy and hurting.

Sometime around five in the evening, Hudson returned holding my journal-the one I'm currently working in-and gave it to me. This came as a surprise, and I really should have been grateful. Instead, it pissed me off, because it meant Hudson had been digging through my stuff. I love him like a brother, but that doesn't mean he has permission to go through my personal belongings. You're not even supposed to be going through the rack of another Marine, no matter how friendly you are with them, because stuff gets stolen all the time.

I can remember in boot camp that we were told that all of us come from different backgrounds, and you never know what the life of the guy sleeping next to you was like; they could be a thief because that's something they got used to doing in order to survive. Vividly, I remember the instructors singling me out because I was coming from prison, and they made sure to tell all the other recruits not to trust me with any little object in their possession.

Yes, in prison, stealing stuff is a necessary skill to have in order to live. I did it multiple times per week. Whenever I got the chance, I'd steal something I needed at the moment, especially when the stuff the smugglers wanted for trade got scarce. I almost became one in the first couple months in juvie, but the contraband system in a juvenile facility is a whole lot less sophisticated than a regular facility. The guys who snuck things in for you were cocky, didn't do anything to earn your respect, and would beat you up as soon as give you a razor for shaving. So, yeah, I stole stuff because sometimes, there's no one to trust but yourself.

That's not how it is on base, with your regular unit. I've been with them for two years, and I know my comrades pretty well. I know that we'd never steal from each other, and I know Hudson would never steal from me (unless, of course, I had a box of vanilla wafers in my rack), because I would never steal from Hudson. It's that simple. We've never discussed it, but it's one of those unwritten rules of friendship that you automatically know as soon as you feel comfortable around your new buddy.

That doesn't change the fact that I didn't approve of Hudson rifling through my stuff. I didn't say a word (well, I couldn't) when Hudson approached me, holding the journal. He saw the look on my face, and his smile quickly faded. "I brought your . . . diary, man." He placed it next to me. "What's the matter?"

I wrote out on a sheet of paper that I didn't appreciate him going through my rack, and I wanted to know why he didn't get my permission beforehand.

"I dunno, I thought it'd be nice." Hudson definitely looked hurt. Before he could say anything else, the door opened, and Hicks was peering in, looking exhausted.

"Are you two busy?" he asked.

Hudson thought for a moment. "No, man. We're not busy. I just . . . gave Drake his journal, and . . . I probably shoulda asked before going in his rack."

"You know you're not supposed to go through other people's racks. I know you were trying to be helpful, but don't do it again, alright? Can I talk to Drake for a few minutes?"

"He can't talk, man."

"I know, but . . . I need him to listen anyways."

Hudson shrugged, and sighed as he walked out of the room.

Hicks slowly closed the door behind him, and turned to face me. He grabbed a chair, sitting by my bed, and looked at all the gifts (mostly from Hudson) on the table nearby. He took a breath before making eye contact with me. "A little bird told me that Ariker is trying to play mind games with us. Why, I don't know, but it's . . . it's obviously working. I don't know if this is the goal he had, but, if it is, he's doing a damn good job. Either way, this . . . this was probably a situation we were gonna find ourselves in, eventually."

I nodded.

"I mean, I'm not wrong when I say that you will come to a point in your life where you won't have anyone to help you. I think . . . I think I should've responded better. I shouldn't be so overprotective." Hicks looked at me, and remembered I couldn't exactly say anything right now. "Look, recovery isn't a smooth road. You know that, I know that. I wish I had the relationships you do when I was going through my therapy. My friendships with everyone here were brand-new, and very fragile. Not to mention I was a little timid at first. It took me awhile to really find my . . . leader's voice, and the 'style' I have now. I did a lot of my recovery on my own. I forced myself through it, and I figured out when I needed to slow down and take a step back and tell myself whether I needed to stop or keep going. That's something I need to teach you. I know that if I just cast you aside, you will eventually learn how, but it'll be ten times more difficult for you than it was for me. Why? Because you've formed relationships with people here. That would be like tearing off a bandage before the wound's even had a chance to heal. I can't do that to you. I can't ask you to sever any of your relationships for the sake of toughening yourself. I know you don't think it right now, but you're arguably one of the toughest Marines I've had the pleasure of serving alongside. When your head's in the game, you don't take shit, you get the job done, and you do it well. You don't panic in combat. You know that when we're on a mission, you have to turn your emotions off, and you know you can release them when it's over."

I would've argued with him on that, but I couldn't.

Hicks continued to list out things he was proud of me for, and I listened. He concluded his speech with something about how he wanted me to use my relationships to aid in my recovery, and start learning how to cope when I'm on my own. Speaking of doing things on my own, Hicks also brought up the fact that the life skills classes start next week. I know I'm still going to be feeling sick and dealing with the process of recuperating from my tonsil surgery, but it shouldn't be too big of a deal.

I know Ranelli cares about me, but I don't think he's gonna want a sick man touching anyone's food.

* * *

The good thing about Hicks and I mending the rips and tears in our relationship is that he kept his promise in bringing me a whole lot of ice cream. We stayed up late talking about whatever was on our minds once I finally got my voice back, but I let Hicks do most of the talking because my throat got sore whenever I tried going on and on about something.

The day before I was going to be released from sick bay, Hudson stopped in to see me and eat ice cream at nine in the morning. He scooped himself a large bowl of soft vanilla, and slapped a big ol' dollop of hot fudge and whipped cream on it.

"That is literally the only reason you came in here today," I rasped.

"No, man. It's _one_ reason, but not the only reason," Hudson replied. "How're you doing?"

"I'm tired. I feel like I've been run over by a fucking train. I can't talk for more than a couple minutes. My arm's still in a sling, and I'm bored. Not to mention Ariker was supposed to come talk to me at some point while I'm in here, and he hasn't. I think he's bullshitting everyone."

"Maybe. He was talking about you during breakfast today."

"Negatively?"

"Nope." Hudson shoveled a dripping spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. "He was saying something 'bout how you're one of the smartest people he's ever met."

"Really?"

Hudson nodded. "Yeah, man. He actually really respects you."

"Did he say that to you?"

"Not to me, but I heard it."

I sighed, and coughed. "I think he's playing with everyone."

"I dunno, man. Maybe you fucked with his game and that's why he respects you."

"I hope that's the case. Why would he do that, though?"

Hudson shrugged. "People do that, man. This place is boring. Need something to keep your mind occupied."

I had a feeling that Hudson was right. There really was no explanation for why Ariker would press me and Hicks to argue like we did, and that was one of the first things I brought up when he finally showed up a few hours later.

"You know, you people are certainly right when you say that Private Hudson can't keep his mouth shut," Ariker said. "However, you're also right when you say that this was, indeed, a game. A psychological game."

"Very shitty game, if you ask me," I replied.

"Not exactly. It's a very easy game, if you're curious about human behavior and desire."

"Why play it, though? It's cruel."

"Might I remind you, Drake, that I was once a prisoner, like yourself. There were plenty of intelligent people who were also incarcerated, and, naturally, we bonded. With limited resources to keep ourselves busy between sunup, sundown, and mealtimes, we decided our best playthings would be the other inmates. We wanted to analyze their minds, see if we could change their patterns of thinking. So we mingled amongst the stupid and the weak. We talked to them, and it didn't take very much to get a skeleton of their personalities."

"You manipulated people."

"In a way, yes."

"For your own pleasure."

"Exactly."

"I can't imagine how fucking boot camp was for you."

"Boot camp, Drake, was a breeze. It is far too easy to see what makes a drill instructor tick. When they tick, they verbally assault everyone. When they verbally assault everyone, nothing gets done. I had to go around in the wee hours of the morning and talk to those that set them off. Without so much as a shout, I turned them into better recruits. I learned about their desires. I let them fantasize about their dreams. I gave them hope. Hope made them perform better."

"Any idiot can do that."

"That's not true. Some people can see through you, and know that you don't actually care about their desires." Ariker smiled, and for the first time, I saw a twinkle in his eye. "Of course, this only works when someone is unaware that what you're doing is a game. You saw it, and you tried to call me out on it. For that, I really do respect you."

"What's . . . What's the goal, though?" I asked, frowning. "It still seems stupid."

"The goal is getting a clear picture of who you are without attempting to be your friend." The twinkle disappeared as quickly as it came. "You recall me telling you what I did to get in a juvenile delinquent facility, correct?"

"Arson."

"Right. The lad who lived in the house I burned was once a friend, until about two months before the incident. He had knocked an elderly man stone-cold before stealing his wallet after falling in with a bad crowd of people in our class. Because this poor man couldn't remember what his muggers looked like, my so-called friend was never caught."

"So you set his house on fire instead of turning him over to the cops."

"There were several people who believe 'snitching' is wrong, and they will find out if you report someone to the police, so I took matters into my own hands. I did my best to make it appear like an accident, and I didn't expect his girlfriend to be there at the time. I screwed up somewhere, and perhaps it was for the best."

"Do you feel guilty?"

"Sometimes. Most of the time, I don't think about it. I see it as the past, not the present. How I am now is not how I was seven years ago."

A number of thoughts were surfacing, but I didn't know how to express them. I didn't care anymore about the fact that Ariker had messed with me and Hicks just to see our reactions; he done fucked up in life, but he doesn't feel guilty. In fact, he's enjoying himself. He's going with the flow. Why? How? And how do I do that? I took a sip of tea, and said, "How did you learn to stop feeling guilty?"

"I don't overthink everything. I accept my emotions as they are. I don't let people make me feel bad about any part of myself. I'm honest."

"So, do you really think that we're all ungrateful?"

Ariker shook his head. "No. I said that in the heat of a moment, and shouldn't have. For that, I'm sorry."

I sighed. "Apology accepted. But you have to apologize to Hicks and Dietrich and Hudson as well."

"I'll do that as soon as I'm finished with you, which isn't much, to be honest."

"Are you less bored now that you almost wrecked what I've got with Hicks?"

"Significantly. However, I would hope it spawned some thoughtful discussions between the two of you, subsequently strengthening your bond." The twinkle in his eye returned. "Did it?"

I nodded.

"Then I've achieved my goal."

* * *

 _Question: How were Drake's and Hicks's responses to Ariker different, and what did their responses say about what they needed to work on?_

 _Author's Note: I'm starting to feel like the twists and turns of this story are too numerous. I never outline a story before writing. Even if I do, I want to change things as they happen, because I think of something I feel is better for the story. There were a lot of ideas for Ariker, but I'm starting to wonder if I should have focused more on developing his character rather than pouring all my energy into Drake's interactions with Hicks and Hudson. Then again, constantly being in the background and popping up every once in awhile seems to fit him._


	8. Chapter 8

I was given a more private room the day after my talk with Ariker, only because I was still weak and I can't get in and out of a top rack with my arm still in a sling. This was the closest thing I was going to get to having my own bedroom for a long time, so I planned on enjoying this.

That didn't mean I was exempt from certain things. I still had to go to breakfast with everyone else (but my diet was still different because of my throat), and I had to sit and watch everyone work out in the gym. It was mainly a "you have to go and watch, but you can't participate," kind of thing, because Dietrich and Apone didn't want me sitting alone for too long.

At least I got to go back to my therapy sessions with Ranelli. I got tea and soft cookies as he sat across from me, asking about what happened while I was sick.

"Well, I don't have my tonsils anymore," I rasped.

"Things got that bad, eh? Poor man. Coupled with that injury, I can't imagine the process was very pleasant."

"No, but, there was a bit more that happened, and . . . I don't know how to keep it short and sweet."

"Oh, don't make it short and sweet! This is the place where you can tell me all the details."

So, I told Ranelli about Ariker, and what happened with me and Hicks. I described how Hicks didn't take Ariker's prodding too well, and Ranelli's frown deepened as I talked about how distraught and frustrated Hicks became.

"I think . . . I might want to get Hicks in here to talk with him in private," Ranelli said, softly.

"You don't think Ariker was even a little bit of a dick?"

"Well, of course I admit that what Ariker did wasn't at all kind or helpful to either of you. However, he's completely unfamiliar with Hicks's issues, and only knows the very basics of your issues. You can't fault someone for something they don't know. Not to mention, I think Ariker would make a fine psychologist."

"You're seriously siding with him?"

"Not 'siding.' Just acknowledging that he sounds like an intelligent man, who's gathered his knowledge of the human psyche and emotion through trial and error of his own experience, compared to sitting in a lecture hall all day. Should probably sit and talk with him, too."

I sighed, and coughed. "Anyway, Hicks and I are friends again, in case you were wondering."

"Good. You two definitely need each other, I believe."

"What makes you say that?"

"Hicks needs someone who can listen to him, as do you. It's a very simple thing that every human being needs, and yet it's difficult to get. That's why so many problems go untreated for months or even years. Listening is a complex two-way street. It takes a lot more than just convincing others to listen. You have to convince those who need their problems heard to open up; that's a lot harder than getting somebody to listen." Ranelli pointed at me. "You are a prime example. Heck, I can see you being a guest speaker at a seminar on mental health in the future."

"You're joking, right? No one would take what I have to say seriously. I'm not a scientist. All I know is what happened to me. I don't know the chemistry or shit like that."

"The average, everyday person isn't going to care about that. Now, we certainly shouldn't dismiss the science behind it, but, the mass audience will listen to you. The way you describe your experience will appeal to them because you're like them, and you speak in terms they understand."

I shook my head. "I . . . still don't think a large audience would listen to me."

"Drake, you've shown me your journals. If you can turn your writing into a speech, I think people would listen to you. Don't overthink it too much. It's far down the road. However, what isn't too far down the road is your first life skills class."

"Next week."

"Exactly."

"I doubt it you want me there because I'm still sick and no one wants . . . whatever the hell I have in their food."

"It's not like you're opening a restaurant. These are just basic skills for when you're living on your own. Eating out isn't always the most healthy or affordable option, so this is just so you know how to prepare food and cook for yourself. And besides, I'm sure this would impress your girlfriend."

I never thought of it that way before, and I liked it.

* * *

I'll be honest, I actually missed sleeping in the same room as Hudson, Hicks, and Spunkmeyer. I missed Hudson reaching up to tap the side of my rack and talk to me until I managed to fall asleep. That doesn't take away from how nice it is to have my own room again, but it definitely means I overestimated how much I hated this base.

But, I did wish that it wasn't a hospital room. I'm not sure what it is about hospital rooms that make them a tiny bit creepy. Sick bay is less complex than a regular hospital, but it still has a crudely similar feel. Maybe it's because I've been in this kind of situation before, and I'm getting tired of it.

It was really quiet when I woke up this morning, but it didn't take long for that quiet to be disturbed by someone knocking on the door and yelling, "Time to get up, Drake!"

I was hit with restlessness today. I was bored, and I felt like being bitter to everyone, including my own friends. The weird part was that Hudson and Vasquez seemed to tell that I was in a foul mood because of my arm and the soreness in my throat, so they did their best to avoid annoying the crap out of me.

On the other hand, I heard that Hicks was in Ranelli's office, and, out of curiosity, I went down to see how he was doing. Although the do-not-disturb sign was on the door, I could hear Hicks crying, and I wanted to go in. It sounded like a frustrated cry, compared to a sad and hopeless cry. Trust me, I know both.

In the lounge, I told Hudson what I heard, and he looked at me with a sad smile. "Hey, man, if you want me to talk to him when he's free, I will."

"I dunno. I think Hicks is letting his past beat on him a little too much," I said.

"You know how that feels, man. I'll still talk to him for you, if you don't feel ready."

"I really _should_ talk to him. I know we made up, but . . . he's really not sure how to help me. He realized that when Ariker told him that what he was doing wasn't going to help me in the long run, and now he's feeling hopeless."

"Wish I could help you there, man, but I think that's something you gotta talk about with Hicks."

"You know what? You talk to him. I don't know what to say or do or just . . . I don't know."

"Don't feel bad about it. You'll figure yourselves out."

I sighed, and nodded. "OK. Thanks . . . for stepping up for me. I appreciate it."

"You're my best friend, man." Hudson sat next to me, giving me a tight hug. "I'll always step up for you."

"Watch my arm. Watch my arm," I grunted.

"Sorry. Hey, did you wanna go into town tonight? Maybe we can grab a drink or something?"

"I . . . Can we bring Vasquez? I want some alone time with her."

"Sure. I'll go tell her. You, don't strain yourself, man." Hudson patted my shoulder.

He left to go find Vasquez, and I ended up leaving the lounge because I wanted to be alone. Did I want to be alone? I can't tell anymore. I decided to sit in the armory, and realized that was a mistake, because I sat in front of my smartgun, and pitied myself because I wasn't able to do anything with it until I heal.

Maybe being by myself wasn't a good idea, and it's made me think about when I'll ever be able to be alone without my mind shutting itself into a dark corner where all my awful thoughts and memories reside. All I could think about was how screwed up I was, how I've come close to destroying my own friendships. All I could think about was how big a failure I really was.

Maybe I'm better off alone, with no relationships to wreck.

But, I guess that's not possible anymore. Hicks is right: I've built these relationships. To get rid of them would be the same as removing a bandage before the wound beneath has a chance to heal. However, the wound will eventually heal. It'll just take longer, and it could get infected. It could leave a bad scar. Why do that to yourself?

I heard the door to the armory open, and close, and Ferro quietly walked over to me. "Hey. Whatcha doing in here?"

"I don't know," I said. "Never know what the hell I'm doing anymore."

Ferro looked at my sling, and listened to how hoarse my voice was. "You feel beaten down because of what happened to you?"

"It's my fault. No, really, it is. I couldn't just deal with Hudson's snoring. I had to try and reach down and close his mouth. It spooked him and he knocked me outta my rack."

"So, accidents happen."

"I should've prevented it. But, no, I'm too stupid and lazy for that."

"You're not, Drake. Bad stuff happens in life, whether you like it or not. What matters is pulling yourself up afterwards."

"Well, I haven't been able to pull myself up. I'll never be able to pull myself up. I'm gonna be like this till the day I die." Without warning, I sobbed. "Shouldn't have come in here to be alone. Every single time I'm alone . . . everything just comes flooding back. I know I can't spend too much time with other people, because then when I do get a chance to be alone, I feel worse."

"Have you talked to your therapist about this?"

"No."

"You really should. That's why he's here. You can't . . . You can't force yourself to just deal with this on your own. Whoever cares about you, tell them."

"What am I supposed to do when I'm out on my own as a civilian? What am I supposed to do when I don't have access to you guys anymore?" I used my shirt to wipe the tears from my eyes. "I gotta get used to having no one around to help me."

"You think you're not gonna make any friends when you leave?"

"Of course not. No one's gonna want to be around me. Not when I'm like this. I can't wear an emotional mask anymore. I just . . . I haven't had to wear one ever since I started therapy. You guys all understand because you've known me for so long. I can't just go back to wearing that mask because I know how bad it hurts. I don't want to lie to people just to get them to trust me."

Ferro thought for a moment. "Sounds like you need to learn how to talk to strangers, sweetie." She shrugged. "Hey, don't be ashamed of it. There're plenty of people who don't know how to talk to someone they just met." She leaned in to whisper. "Hicks is one of them. Have you seen him tense up whenever we're at a ball or something? He has little nervous habits that he does every time he talks to somebody he doesn't know that well. Watch him next time; why do you think he wears a scarf when he's on leave? Even when he's in a dress uniform, he has it. He plays with the ends of it. Why do you think we have those little spinning motion pieces on the mess tables?"

Well, that was certainly an eye-opener for the day. "I thought those were there just because."

"It's meant to look that way. When he doesn't wear a scarf, he kinda plays with those things at the table." Ferro smiled. "Nothing to be ashamed of. At least you don't have all those little habits. I can teach you how to talk to people, if you want."

"You know what? Yes. Please, teach me," I said. I was still surprised to learn about why those stupid spinning toys were on the mess hall tables. "Seriously? Apone let him buy those because he-"

"I didn't get them, Drake. I'm just telling you what I know." Ferro gave me a friendly hug. "You feel better?"

"Not entirely, but . . . talking to you helped. Thanks."

"You're welcome." She was quiet for a minute, then looked at me with a faint smile. "I do enjoy talking to you. Believe me, I didn't even want to try getting along with you when you first arrived, but . . . maybe I should've done it sooner."

"I woulda pushed you away back then, no matter what," I replied, sighing a little. "Everyone except Vasquez, I pushed away."

Ferro nodded. "I noticed she was confiding in Hudson a lot when you were in sick bay. Even talked to me a few times, but I get the impression she's not all that ready to trust me yet."

"Keep talking to her. She'll trust you, eventually. It'll take awhile, but you'll get there. I know she's not a girly-girl, but she does need a good friend that's also a girl, in the same way a guy needs a good friend that's a guy. She just needs someone who'll listen and get what she's saying."

"Got it. Thanks."

"And you're welcome." I managed to grin a little, though it faded a little when I realized we'd have to go back to our daily lives soon.

* * *

It turns out Hudson wasn't kidding when he said he'd talk to Hicks for me. I heard them talking in our room as I headed down to the mess hall for dinner, and this is all I've been able to remember from their conversation.

"I can't believe Drake had the gall to eavesdrop on my personal life again," Hicks said.

"Anyone in that hallway could hear you cry, man," Hudson replied. "And you know what? He's your friend, or so you claim, so just accept the fact that he wants to help you. This does involve both of you."

"I would've talked to him when I was ready."

"He said the same thing. That's why I'm here."

"You're not helping, Hudson."

"Tell me what's going on, man!"

There was silence after Hudson raised his voice to Hicks. I never thought it'd be even remotely in his character to do that. Hicks sighed, before saying, "I really don't know how to help him. All I know is from my own experience, and my own experience isn't his experience. It's a bad example."

"How?"

"I went through just about everything alone. I barely trusted you guys. I spent a lot of time . . . just . . . alone. I pushed through it alone. Drake can't, and I feel bad that I even thought that I could help him."

"You still know how he feels, man. Don't doubt yourself so hard."

"All along, I wasn't helping him. I was coddling him. I was overprotective, and . . . a-and nothing I've done has helped him."

"That's not true. You helped him a lot just by telling him that you know how he feels. He feels less alone. You just pushing him away and claiming you've done nothing ain't helping. You can't just cut him off from you-hell, you just said that he'll suffer if he just decides to cut away every friendship he's got. Don't give up on him, man. You don't need to be the giver of all advice-that's what Ranelli's for. You'd probably be just as helpful as a friend, who understands how he's feeling."

"I thought I was that to Paulson. I . . . He . . . He had me, he had his wife, and his son. He had a support system, but . . . he still hung himself." Hicks sniffed.

"Drake isn't Paulson, man. I get that you're afraid of him going down that same path, but, they're not the same person."

"You're right. They're not." Hicks took a breath. "Why am I still afraid, though?"

"I dunno. It happened in your past, so it's reasonable for you to be afraid of it happening again, man. That's my best explanation. You just need to talk to each other more often now. That's not hard, is it?"

"No. It's not."

"I'll . . . I'll talk to him later. Don't get into trouble when you guys go out."

"Deal. Thanks for letting me talk to you, man."

"Whatever. It's all anyone wants to do anymore around here."

* * *

 _Question: How would Drake and Hicks revisit some of these conversations if Drake had survived the events of "Aliens" along with Hicks?_

 _Author's Note: I must apologize to Serene Fairy for not answering your question in "Dead Air." That story takes place a month after "Perpetual Storm."  
_

 _The perpetual motion toys on the mess tables in "Aliens" are basically the equivalent to the dippy birds in "Alien." Re-watch clips of the scene right after Bishop does the knife trick with Hudson; you'll see Hicks playing with the motion toy while saying, "Looks like the new lieutenant's too good to eat with the rest of us grunts." That's where I got the idea that he gently fidgets with things when he's bored or slightly uncomfortable. It's a character quirk that doesn't need to be explained, but I thought it was interesting nonetheless since he's the only one you can see lightly tapping the motion toy._


	9. Chapter 9

I'd be lying if I said I was feeling a lot better by the time I started my classes for life skills. I was less sore, but that didn't stop the dull pain that occurred every time I swallowed from being a nuisance. I can't even pronounce (much less remember) all the medications I'm on for my throat and my arm, but I know they have a hand in making me feel woozy and tired all damn day.

I had to be up early to grab breakfast and paperwork before heading down to another building with an escort-that being Wierzbowski. Now, I really don't know if Apone told him to go with me or he volunteered (I mean, I'd never volunteer to be an escort for somebody, because it means you have to trail them the whole time they're visiting another part of the base where, say, another unit lives, or the bank or on-site store, and that can take all fucking day), but I had a gut feeling it was because Wierzbowski and I really don't talk that much to each other. Perhaps Apone figured that would prevent me from flying off the handle, since Wierzbowski has a knack for, well, not pissing people off.

I learned from Ferro that Apone is now fully aware of what happened in sick bay regarding me, Hicks, and Ariker, and he had a long chat with both Sergeant Foster and Ariker a few nights ago about how these kinds of shenanigans won't be tolerated. Overall, he found it really childish and petty, and the three of us were going to be punished for it. Hicks wasn't allowed to leave base for three days. I wasn't allowed in the lounge for two days, and Ariker's leave privileges were revoked for a week.

And when Apone found out that Hudson threatened Ariker, he performed a surprise inspection on Hudson's rack, uncovering a pretty substantial stash of goodies taken from the lounge, as well as from off-base. He also looked over every single photograph that Miranda had ever sent Hudson, making sure that she wasn't sending him anything inappropriate. It was hilarious for everyone watching, but not for Hudson, who ended up getting his lounge privileges revoked for five days-two for hiding contraband in his rack, and three for threatening Ariker. As far as I know, he's trying to get Spunkmeyer to bring him free candy bars.

I frankly don't care that I can't go in the lounge for the next two days. I'm in one of those moods where I don't want to socialize, and with a whole other unit sharing the lounge with us, that means more people. More people means I can't talk to someone intimately in the lounge.

Wierzbowski walked alongside me down the winding hallways to a pair of sealed doors that led to the "public" building of the complex. All bases have one, and the basic rule is that you're not allowed to go alone if you're under the rank of corporal; privates can, however, have another private as an escort, if that private has a good behavior streak. The public building contains the banks, a call center, post office, classrooms, and a small store selling basic hygiene items and spare uniform pieces. The uniform pieces are important, but us grunts have managed to get away with avoiding the hygiene items here. Why? They're crap. There's a reason why the prices are so low. I'm willing to pay more, and go off-base for something that's gonna last me a long time rather than keep wasting time getting permission and an escort to go all the way back down to the on-site store for another crappy toothbrush because the first one broke and doesn't get the job done.

The public building could also use a café or two. A good one. Just so we don't have to deal with rations every single day.

We had to wait in a narrow hallway for someone to get me for the classes. I could hear several other classes were already underway. I glanced at the wall, seeing your typical "wash your hands and avoid such-and-such disease" signs, signs with information regarding domestic abuse, and substance abuse, and signs with all the suicide hotlines.

I really wasn't paying attention to much of anything when a sergeant I didn't know walked up to us, and started laying into me for some reason. "Hey! Sit up straight! Eyes forward! Who the hell do you think you are, Private? Broken arm's not an excuse to look like a lazy civvie!" He took my papers, and then thrust them back in my hand. "Life skills, huh? Too much of a wuss to learn on your own? You need somebody holding your hand so you can figure out how to be a fucking civilian again?"

"Sergeant?" Wierzbowski said, raising his hand a little. "He . . . He's got post-traumatic stress-"

"That's not an excuse, either. Full of excuses, aren't you? What's your name, piss-face? I'm gonna have a talk with your sergeant about this."

I swallowed, struggling to maintain my composure. "Private Drake, Sergeant."

"Private Drake. I can't believe we're wasting our time keeping people like you in here. You can't even _sit up straight!_ That's the least you could do, Private Drake. Least you could do before getting into your wussified-"

"Sergeant Henley! Get away from my patient, and mind your own beeswax!" Ranelli shouted as he stormed over to us. "I don't recall a Goddamn soul telling you to bother anyone waiting outside my classroom."

The sergeant immediately looked like he regretted his actions. "Doctor, my apologies, I-"

"Don't apologize to me, son. Apologize to Drake. I heard what you said. How _dare_ you accuse any Marine of being a waste of time and a wuss? He's not even in your own unit."

"I'm aware," Henley replied. "My apologies, Private."

I didn't say a word, because I didn't accept it.

"Now, go run along with whatever it was you were originally doing," Ranelli said. "I'll be informing Apone of this."

Now Henley was flushing red. "He's with Apone? I used to be his corporal before-whatshisname . . . oh, Corporal Hicks came along." A smile blossomed on his face. "Jesus, I really am sorry, Drake. If I had known you were with Apone, I wouldn't have said anything." He looked at Wierzbowski. "And I can't remember your name because you were always so quiet, but I do recognize you now."

"Wierzbowski, Sergeant." I could tell Wierzbowski wasn't pleased with what had just happened, which made me wonder if I could start opening up to him.

"Right. Again, I'm sorry, gentlemen." Henley walked away.

I let out a sigh. "I'd rather suck another man's dick than believe a word that guy just said."

"Relax, Drake. Henley really does mean well. He just got back from a class at training command, so it's no surprise he's not quite himself."

"Oh, of course. He must be pitied for that." I rolled my eyes.

"Drake, you're already in trouble. Don't heap on anymore. Get in the classroom and leave your papers by my desk."

I stood up to follow Ranelli into the classroom, and noticed Wierzbowski giving me a small smile from the corner of my eye. A part of me wanted to thank him for trying to stick up for me, but the door closed before I could open my mouth.

Setting my papers on the front desk, I took a seat at one of several kitchenettes installed throughout the room, and I was beginning to regret this. The anger at Henley was melting into my usual self-beating. _He's probably right. I could learn all this on my own. Eventually._ I started thinking about what life would be like when I restart life as a civilian. I'd probably forget to eat for a few days before ordering pizza or takeout, and if I didn't feel like doing that, I'd eat one apple or something like that. I'd probably slim all the way down to what I looked like in prison. Then again, if Vasquez and I leave the Marines together, and get married, she wouldn't let that happen. She'd nag in my ear all day about how I need more in my system before I finally cave in and eat an entire box of Ritz crackers. And then she'd nag me about how I'm not eating right.

Basically, I don't know what's worse: going back to being a skeleton, or having a nagging wife. I figured, all wives nag at one point or another, so, that's unavoidable. I'd rather put up with the nagging on a full stomach, because then I'm less cranky and less likely to start fighting. Less fighting for stupid reasons means a good marriage.

 _So, this entire class is to ensure I have a happy marriage. I can get behind that._ I stared at Ranelli as he explained the common-sense stuff, like safety. I really wanted to point out that no one in the room was under the age of five, but I knew that would be really unnecessary, and mean, given all he's done for me.

Our first task was to follow a really simple biscuit recipe. I was surprised that Ranelli was giving us all something to do considering it's the first day, but he explained that it's best to learn as you do. His challenge was for us all to at least try and help each other in some way, so we can get to know each other.

You may as well have tied my right arm behind my-oh, wait.

I didn't have a choice but to get help, so I raised my hand.

"Go ask one of your classmates, Drake," Ranelli said.

 _But I don't know anybody._ I rolled my eyes again. My God, it was so nerve-wracking to go out there and try to talk to some of these other Marines. I couldn't figure out who to go to or what to say. I couldn't even attempt to do much of anything with just one arm.

In all honesty, I felt useless. I don't want to feel useless anymore, so I slunk out of my station to talk to the guy behind me, who was already in the process of putting his dough together. "Hey, um . . . can I . . . have some help?" I gestured to my injury.

"Bring your bowl over here. I'll let you use some of my stuff," he replied.

 _Is it natural for some people to be helpful? Is that why he's helping me without asking any questions?_ I will admit I didn't exactly do much of anything, aside from holding something or getting something. I didn't bother asking for the guy's name or what unit he was in, and he was doing a good job at alternating between his dough and mine. He would explain things to me whenever he turned his attention to my dough, and in all honesty, that was mounting guilt on me pretty bad.

"Are you alright? You look a little lost."

At least what I told him wasn't a complete lie. "I'm fine. Just . . . the meds I'm on . . . feel kinda sluggish."

He grinned. "I've broken plenty of bones before. Doesn't make you feel too good, physically or mentally."

"Yeah. It's just a bone bruise, but I'm out of action for a month. And I had to have my tonsils out."

"Now that's the definition of shit luck, there-what's your name?"

"Drake."

"Drake. I'm Garen." He held out his hand, and I shook it. "I heard Sergeant Henley out there yelling at you. Don't take what he says too personally. He just got back from-"

"Class at boot camp. Ranelli told me as I was coming in."

"Yeah. He's really a thoughtful guy. Atmosphere's just a little different at training camp than here. Drill instructors never say that, though."

"He said he used to be Apone's corporal before Hicks. Is that true?"

"Yes, and Hicks used to be my corporal under Sergeant Trevors. How's he doing?"

"Who, Hicks? He's . . . OK."

"He was a bit of a wreck when he finally got transferred, poor guy. A friend of his committed suicide, and he sunk into this messy depression. Some form of manic depression, I believe. He was hyper-organized and angry for a week, and then sad and unmotivated the next."

"Yeah, he's been doing . . . a lot better. I entered the unit two years ago."

"First unit?"

I nodded.

"Enlisted?"

I shook my head. "Juvie conscription."

Garen was quiet for a moment. "So, you're trying to avoid going back to prison."

"Pretty much. I'm really not . . . you know, a bad guy or anything. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's not something I like talking about."

"That's alright. I can't imagine it'd be something you enjoy talking about. General Paulson actually put that program together several months before he died."

"Really?"

Garen nodded. "It was still largely in development when it was implemented. He was drafting rules when the first busload of inmates arrived at boot camp. Unfortunately, some of them managed to use this semi-freedom to wreak havoc all over again. I don't know the entire story, but I know a sergeant was strangled to death, and two recruits were stabbed in the showers. Paulson was ultimately infuriated at how careless this started out, and there were people-both civilian and military-accusing him of wanting to put criminals in charge of keeping us safe. Even after all the changes were made, he still had these horrible accusations thrown at him."

My stomach dropped as though someone yanked open a trapdoor under it. "Did Hicks know about this?"

"I have no idea."

Holy shit. I know Hicks has no clue as to why his friend killed himself. I know that's one of the reasons Hicks blamed himself for what happened.

He has to know. There's no excuse for him not to know.

* * *

The class only lasted an hour, so as soon as my station was cleaned up, I rushed out to join Wierzbowski, who was reading a newspaper. "Let's go," I breathed. "There's something I gotta tell Hicks, right now."

"Are you OK?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

Wierzbowski raised an eyebrow. "You looked completely frazzled, Drake."

"I'm fine. Seriously, Hicks needs to hear this, now."

Shrugging, Wierzbowski got up, following me out of the public building. "How'd your class go?"

"It was OK. I-I'll tell you later." _This could give Hicks the closure and healing he needs. This could end all the pain he's still suffering._

Wierzbowski gave me a concerned look. "I . . . Alright. Whatever makes you happy."

I turned to face him, and sighed, knowing that I still owed him for standing up for me. "OK-" I grabbed the big man by his shoulder, pulling him over to a large storage closet holding shelves upon shelves of spare blankets and sheets. "You _cannot_ tell a soul. Can you do that for me?"

"Sure."

I explained what I learned from Garen as best I could, ending with, "Hicks is finally gonna know why his friend committed suicide. He'll finally know it wasn't his fault."

"Drake, I wouldn't . . . rush into this head on. One, you don't actually know if this is why Paulson offed himself. Two, getting Hicks's hopes up only to find later on that wasn't the case is ten times worse than never finding the real reason at all."

"I'm not saying this is the definitive reason why."

"No, but-"

"He deserves to know it was a possibility."

Wierzbowski gave up. "Just be careful with this, alright? None of us want to see Hicks more hurt than he already is. He's been doing fine for the last four years, and we don't want to see him spiral out of control. I also don't think you want to feel like you're the one responsible for sending him backwards. It wouldn't be good for either of you."

To tell you the truth, I felt like crying. Why? I had something that could both help and hurt Hicks, but I didn't know which. He deserved to know this, but what if it wasn't true? What if this seriously damaged the progress he's made for all these years? What if it damaged our friendship? What if it completely screwed me over because it'd be my fault that he gets set back?

I kinda felt like I got picked up in a tornado, and thrown several miles away from where I should be, leaving me lost and confused as to where I should go.

* * *

 _Question: How would Drake's response be different if he wasn't aware of what Hicks was going through?_

 _Author's Note: Yes, Serene Fairy, I have considered doing an AU story where most of the Marines survive. It would be a challenging and ambitious project, because the biggest problem would be where to start. As much as retelling the movie from Drake's perspective would be interesting, I feel like it would come out too cheesy. Now that, yes, I am seriously thinking about writing this after wrapping up Hudson's story, I think the best way to start would be immediately after Ripley shoots the queen out of the airlock, working in Drake's thoughts as he and what remains of the crew prepare to go into cryosleep. That being said, I don't want to include any spoilers as far as the pre-"Aliens" series goes into that story, not to mention it'd just be a fun little alternate universe project that could be interpreted as a continuation of the Drake series if the reader so chooses.  
_

 _And perhaps there'd be a part two from Hicks's perspective, just to have some humorous bits where Ripley is introduced to his nervous habits._


	10. Chapter 10

That knowledge about General Paulson was weighing heavily on me all day. I couldn't eat or pay attention to anything. Of course, I can't deny that Wierzbowski is right; telling this to Hicks could really destroy our relationship. On the other hand, this could give him the closure he needs to really heal.

I want to see him get better, but I also don't want to hurt him more.

I figured the best person to talk to about this was Doctor Ranelli, but he had a second class, so my appointment was pushed back a few hours. My next best bet was Hudson.

After getting Hudson to sit down and enjoy the biscuits I made in class, I explained to him what I found out, and what Wierzbowski said. When I was done talking, he replied, "What do you really feel like doing, man?"

"I feel like throwing up."

"No, no, about . . . 'bout telling Hicks."

"I want to tell him, but Wierzbowski-"

"OK, everyone here likes Wierzbowski. He's not a bad guy, and he cares about us, but he doesn't know the little inner workings of your relationship with Hicks. It's not his fault. You haven't really talked to him like a friend since you got here."

"Two fucking years. That's . . . That's another failure on my part."

"Hey, no pity parties, Drake. Everything's OK. Just, listen to me, man. He doesn't know the chemistry between you and Hicks. Hicks would probably completely understand what you say to him. And you'd probably explain yourself, too. You know, try to emphasize that you're not doing this to hurt him or fuck up your friendship, man."

I sighed. "If you say so. I'll go tell him."

"Well, good luck, man. Hey, can you make more of these biscuits? Please?"

"Can I get my right arm healed?"

* * *

Before I could talk to Hicks, I found Vasquez in the armory, using the paints I got her for Christmas on her smartgun and chestplate. Without saying anything, I sat next to her, and put my arm around her, nuzzling her face. "Hi."

"Drake, what're you doing? I'm kinda busy here," Vasquez replied.

"I came to see you, because I love you so much."

"And I love you, too. Why couldn't this have waited till later?"

"I dunno." I kissed her. "I miss those late-night conversations with you."

"You realize I don't want to talk about that, right?"

I paused. "I kinda figured that. And you told me a few nights ago when Hudson took us into town and we got a moment of privacy for once."

Vasquez sighed, and set her paintbrush down. "Well, we have . . . some privacy know. Why don't we talk about what's going on in our lives?"

"Fair enough. What's new with you?"

"Did you say something to Ferro about me?"

"Maybe . . . I thought you were somewhat comfortable with her."

"I've told you that I'd rather go at my own pace. What did you say?"

"I . . . told her that you . . . you need a friend that's a female, like how a guy needs a friend that's a guy."

"You really said that to her?"

"Yeah. She understands. I explained to her that this is something you wanna take your time with. It's not like she's a bad person. I trust her."

"That doesn't mean I will."

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes-"

"Then trust me when I say that this is good for you. Believe me, I understand how you feel. I had the same issue when it came to talking to Hudson and Hicks. I'm not, you know, dismissing you."

"I know you're not, but I wish you could've let me do this on my own."

"Alright, were you ever going to do this on your own? Be honest with me," I sighed.

Vasquez paused, looking away from me. "I would . . ."

"No, you wouldn't. I know you; you need to be forced into a situation in order to actually get along with other people. Not saying it to be mean. Just an observation. And I'm saying it for your own good-"

"Drake, just because you can do this doesn't mean I can. I will talk to Ferro when I want to, not when you tell me to. Just stop, OK?"

I sighed again. "Fine. At least think about what I said, please?"

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when I found Hicks alone out in the courtyard. He smiled at me before saying, "Hey, how was your first class this morning?"

"It was fine." I glanced at the door, and sat across from Hicks. "Look, I . . . heard something that I think you need to hear, and it's been bothering me all day because if it's taken the wrong way, things could get . . . really bad between us, so I . . . I hope I explain myself as best I can with this."

Hicks put his cigarette back in his mouth. "Fire away, Drake."

I took a deep breath. "Alright, well . . . I was talking to someone at the class. He asked if I enlisted, and I said, 'No, I was conscripted from juvenile prison.' He, I guess, used to be in your unit before this one, and was asking how you were because of all the stuff that happened in regards to your friend. He said that Paulson had helped put together the conscription program, and after things went wrong, he took a lot of flack for it. I . . . I kinda put two and two together, and I feel like . . . that may be a reason that he killed himself."

Hicks was silent. His expression remained stoic, and then he nodded a little. "I knew that he was a contributor to that program. I didn't know that . . . things had gone wrong. Hell, I wasn't exactly in favor of it when I first learned about it. I can remember saying something along the lines of, 'This could potentially be dangerous. Are you thinking this through?' and . . . maybe he was afraid that I wouldn't be on his side if he told me about it."

"It just sounds like it's not your fault after all. You didn't know what happened at the time."

"I would have if I had just kept my mouth shut and listened to him."

 _Here's where everything is going to come crashing down. I blew it. He's gonna blame himself again and unravel years of progress he's made-_

"But, you're right. I didn't know what happened. I was probably busy with my Godforsaken unit, with no time to escape and talk to somebody who actually mattered. Paulson probably knew that. He didn't want to drag me away from my job for some petty emotional problem. He didn't want the rest of command to notice and start accusing him of favoritism, and it was probably months before any kind of holiday where we could both take time off and talk. Everything could only get worse from there."

I really couldn't figure out what to say, so I went with, "Does it make you feel better knowing that . . . it wasn't your fault?"

"I feel like there were more factors involved, but with this, I . . . I-I am a little more convinced that this was not my fault." Hicks looked at me, and I couldn't help but still be afraid that he was really upset by this. "Drake, thank you."

Most thank-yous I've gotten don't carry a lot of weight. This one carried quite a bit of weight. After all that happened over the last several weeks in regards to Ariker, and how we feel about the best ways to help each other, I did come to see that no matter how much shit got kicked around, there's still a really tight bond between us, and Hicks hasn't taken it for granted.

I guess me giving him this information has proved that this relationship isn't a one-way street. It's not just Hicks helping me; I'm helping him as well. I managed to break the cycle of him being overprotective of me by reassuring him that none of the suicides he witnessed in his life were his fault. He can stop feeling guilty. He can move on.

And I managed to prove that I'm actually changing. The things he's told me have actually helped, and he hasn't held me back.

At least, I hope that this is going to improve things rather than break them down. Knowing my luck, I'm sure it's going to be a matter of time before things go to shit again. That being said, though, I felt like telling Wierzbowski about how giving Hicks that information wasn't a complete disaster.

* * *

I entered the second guys' room to find Crowe napping in his bunk, and Wierzbowski reading in his. Apone had his rack open, and he was getting out a new pair of nightclothes. "What's going on, Drake?" he asked.

"I need to talk to Wierzbowski, Sarge," I replied.

Apone looked up at Wierzbowski. "Come on down here. You two go talk in the lounge."

"Right, sir." Dropping down from his bunk, Wierzbowski slid his book under his pillow, and followed me out into the hallway.

I didn't say anything until we got to the lounge, which was empty and silent. I knelt by the vending machine after sliding a dollar in to grab a candy bar, then stood up to face Wierzbowski. "I told Hicks about what happened this morning."

Wierzbowski gave me a confused look. "OK . . . Given this is something between you and Hicks, I don't see why I should be involved."

"Well, you told me that it'd be a bad idea because this could hurt him."

"And did it?"

"No." I shook my head. "In fact, he feels a lot better."

"So, you just brought me in here to tell me I was wrong?"

I didn't think about it that way. "I guess . . . yeah."

"That's honest-to-God one of the shittier things you've done, Drake. Definitely isn't something you should be rubbing in my face."

"I'm not rubbing it in your face."

"Yes, you are. Why else would you come here and announce that your information didn't hurt Hicks?"

I sighed. "This has been bothering me all day. I really was afraid this could send everything to shit and ruin my relationship with Hicks. I'm sorry."

Wierzbowski was quiet for a moment, and then glanced at me. "That's understandable."

"So, you forgive me?"

"Yeah. No point in holding a grudge. It was brave of you to go ahead and tell Hicks, and . . . I actually admire you for that."

"Gee, thanks," I muttered. "I'm also sorry for coming off as an ass to you."

"No problem. You come across as an ass to everyone," Wierzbowski said with a smirk.

"Well, I'm working on that," I replied. "Slowly, but, I am working on it."

* * *

The next morning, Ariker brought me back into an examination room to have a look at how I was healing. He stared into the back of my throat, looking extensively at the scar tissue that remained where my tonsils used to be. "So far, so good. You're healing nicely. Nothing looks like it needs any immediate attention."

"Is that all?" I asked.

"No. I want to have a look at your arm. Make sure that's healing alright as well." Ariker gently removed my sling, and then sighed before saying, "I would get a better picture of what's going on with the use an MRI. It won't take very long to do. I'll even give you something to relax you if you're that uncomfortable."

I nodded. "Go ahead. I'll be fine."

Without another word, Ariker put the sling back on, and walked me deeper into the sick bay complex. We went into a laboratory near the operating rooms, and he closed the door behind us. Taking off the sling again, Ariker had me lay down on a hard bed that would be slid into the giant machine. "This should take roughly fifteen minutes. There is an emergency button you can feel free to press if you start panicking."

"OK." I rested my head back, allowing Ariker to started up the machine and run a scan of my right arm. I actually thought things were going to go well. I was feeling confident, for once.

Then, that confidence stopped. I suddenly felt like the walls of the machine were closing in on me. I couldn't breathe. I heard a beep from the scanner, and I was immediately transported back to the orbital lab. The doctors were standing over me, trying to resuscitate me. I felt the defibrillator paddles being slammed on my chest, and then I entered a dream.

That memory of a dream faded as quickly as it came. I was being pulled out of the machine, and Ariker said, "Everything OK?"

"Yeah," I lied. "I'm OK."

"Good. So far, it looks like your arm is healing nicely as well. You still have three more weeks, though. Take it easy."

I nodded as he put the sling back on. When I left sick bay, I wanted to be alone. I hated myself.

* * *

I sobbed while sitting between the couch and the large plant against the wall of the lounge. I had lied to myself. I had lied to Ariker. I couldn't handle being in the machine, like I said I would. I felt like I hadn't made any progress at all.

"Drake?"

I looked up through my tears to see Wierzbowski looking down at me, and my face heated up with embarrassment.

"What's wrong?"

I put my head on my knees. "I'm not going anywhere! I've been lying to myself this whole time!"

Wierzbowski offered me his hand, helping me stand up, and sat me down on the couch. "What happened that's making you say this?"

I wiped my face on my shirt. "I had to get an MRI for my arm. I told Ariker I could handle being in the machine without any kind of sedation or something like that. I was wrong. I couldn't breathe. I was reliving that fucking moment on the station. I was so out of it, I couldn't press the fucking panic button." I sighed. "I should be improving, but I'm not."

"I think in the two years you've been here, you've shown quite a bit of improvement. A lot more than anyone here ever expected. Did anyone ever tell you what we all thought of you and Vasquez when you first arrived?"

"I know you all thought I was a loser."

"Not quite. Spunkmeyer, Frost, Ferro, even Hudson all thought you and Vasquez were going to be closed off, rude, angry, aggressive-I mean, in a way, you are, but not in the way we thought. Now, we've all seen you two grow and change, and you more so than Vasquez. I felt bad when Hicks and Apone broke the news that you have PTSD, and you need all the support from the rest of us that you can get. We're . . . We're all a team here. If somebody suffers, the rest of us will help you get back on your feet, no matter how long it takes. It took Hicks over a year to start feeling better, and he's still not a hundred percent better. This isn't something that's going to take less than six months to accomplish. If it takes years, let it take years." Wierzbowski patted my shoulder. "I've seen you change since you started getting help. This isn't a massive setback. It's just something you need to learn how to deal with."

I took a deep breath, knowing that he was right. "It feels like an endless loop I have to go through every day, and I don't know how to break out of it."

"I think you'll break out of it once you figure out how to manage your symptoms, and that takes time. Plus, I think Hicks can help you better with this. He has an idea of what this is like."

I nodded again, choosing not to argue anymore. "Do you know where he is right now?"

"Probably in his room."

* * *

Actually, Hicks was on his way to the base's public complex. I caught up with him as he was about to head into the hallway, and said, "Are you busy?"

"Yeah. Can it wait? I'm looking for somebody."

"Who?"

"Who's the guy that told you that information about Paulson?"

"Private Garen. I don't know if he's around here, though."

"Doesn't matter." Hicks walked up to a small office surrounded by a plexiglass window, and asked the guy at the desk to call down Private Garen.

Something didn't feel right about this. Hicks never told me to wait, and I noticed he was red in the face. "Are you . . . going to talk to him?"

"Yeah," Hicks replied. "I'm gonna talk to him."

"OK."

Ten minutes later, I saw Garen come into the central room through one of the hallways leading to another set of living quarters. He waved to me, and I waved back, somewhat nervously. Hicks approached him, and a split-second later, he lifted Garen by the front of his shirt, slamming him against the wall.

" _You knew about what happened, and you said NOTHING?!_ " Hicks shouted.

"Hicks, don't!" I yelled.

"What're you talking about, sir?" Garen asked, blood draining from his face.

"You knew about what went wrong with the juvie program. You knew about Paulson getting criticized for it. And you said _nothing_ after he died."

"You lost your marbles when you came back, sir! There was nothing anyone could say to you! Plus, I got transferred right before you started getting help!"

"That doesn't excuse you saying nothing!" Tears were streaming down Hicks's face.

"Let him go! This isn't helping!" I shouted.

Two MPs jogged over to us, and shoved Hicks and Garen apart. "Break it up," one of them snapped while putting Hicks's arms behind his back. "Come along now, let's see what your sergeant has to say about this."

* * *

 _Question: Is Drake at all to blame for Hicks's responses after getting the information about his friend?_


	11. Chapter 11

To make a long story short (who am I kidding, this shit is going on far too long), Hicks was set to receive punishment for assaulting Garen, and there is, in fact, a brig on base where he was going to be put for a couple of days.

This would've been far worse if there weren't any witnesses to cut Hicks some slack. I testified on his behalf to say that Hicks has been having "emotional problems" for the last several years. Even Garen agreed with me. Of course, we had to wait for Ranelli to come by so he could show the judge Hicks's mental health record.

I could tell Hicks wasn't pleased that a complete stranger was looking at his personal records, but I also saw him deflate, and give in. He let the MPs escort him down to the brig, and told me to behave myself.

"Let's be real, Drake, I probably should've said something to him all those years ago," Garen said to me as we left the court.

"That was the past," I replied. "None of us fuckers can forget it."

"I'm just saying-"

"I know, but I've heard Hicks's story and I believed you when you said that he wasn't listening to anyone when he got back from Paulson's funeral."

"Well, thanks. You're going to class tomorrow, right?"

"I have to. Why?"

"No reason. Hoping maybe we'll work together again."

I glanced down at my arm. "Do I look like I have a choice?"

"My apologies, Drake. Anyway, don't hesitate to ask me for help." Garen smiled as he turned to head back to his living space.

I wasn't at all surprised to see how disappointed Apone was. At the same time, he was pretty understanding, however, he looked like he wasn't going to enjoy not having Hicks to confide in over the next three days, so he needed a temporary replacement. The only other corporals we have are Dietrich and Ferro, but Dietrich is the medtech and can't be pulled away from her regular duties, and Ferro is, well, a dropship pilot with not a lot of leadership experience. That left the rest of the insane asylum up for the job.

I heard Apone talking to Bishop later that afternoon while I was heading down to the bathroom to take a shower. He was trying to decide which one of us idiots would be a good replacement.

". . . Rank isn't everything, which is why I'm not so sure about Ferro," Apone was saying.

"What about Spunkmeyer?" Bishop asked.

"Nah. Good kid, but needs more experience."

"Frost?"

"Maybe. He could clean up his act for three days."

"Vasquez?"

"Definitely consider her, but she can snap easily."

"Hudson?"

"Are you fucking joking?"

"Sorry, sir. Drake?"

"Maybe, but he can be ten times bitchier than a woman on her period. He could probably handle himself, though."

"Wierzbowski?"

"Too quiet. Good at taking orders, not so much at giving them."

"Crowe?"

"His bulb flickers a lot. Not bad, but not really meant for a leadership position." Apone sighed. "Alright, I said Frost, Vasquez, and Drake would probably be good. Let them know I wanna speak to them after evening chow."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

I hoped that Apone would change his mind in the hours that passed between then and dinner. In all honesty, I didn't think I would get any kind of respect from the others if I was made temporary. Well, I'd get respect from Hudson, and Wierzbowski, and Ferro, maybe Vasquez, but being my girlfriend has no effect on her thoughts on how I am as a leader. I mean, I lead pretty OK in bed, but I can be really lazy if I'm just not into it.

It didn't help that dinner was less than appetizing. As far as I know, it was supposed to be steak. This was a very sad excuse of a steak; it was a thin slice of cooked beef, in a runny gravy that tasted (and looked) like vomit. To make things a bit more disgusting, the side of corn was just about mixed in with the gravy, so it looked even more like vomit.

"You know," Hudson whispered, "if you pick up the meat and scrape the onions off, it ain't so bad."

"You two need to stop being a pair of picky four-year-olds, and eat your food," said Vasquez.

Hudson grinned. "You'd make a great mom with that attitude-ow! She kicked me, man!"

"Yeah, don't do that, sweetie," I whispered.

"Why?"

I leaned in. "Apone's considering us and Frost to replace Hicks for the next few days."

Vasquez was quiet, and appeared unimpressed. Out of everyone in the unit, I'd say she is a good choice to take over for Hicks for a few days, but she has her flaws like any other human being. She's good at following orders, and she's good at doing things her own way. She's definitely not someone who would "let power go to their head," but she can be scary when something isn't done the way she thinks it should be done. However, she's not that good at communication-at least with people who aren't me. I think that's her biggest flaw, and I feel like Apone knows that. Hell, I think he might put her in that position to get her to learn how to communicate better with the rest of us.

And then there's me. I don't think I'm fit to be in charge of anything. I'm good at what I do, and I prefer where I am. Even in combat, I'm never put in charge when we get split up into smaller squadrons to cover more ground-that's usually left to Frost, Hudson, or Hicks. I even tell people not to put me in control. It's not that I don't like having any form of power, it's just that it's a lot of responsibility, and I'm not that good with responsibility. I'm basically tied with Hudson for messiest rack.

I don't see Frost as being a good leader, either. We butt heads a lot. He's not a bad guy; he does a lot of stupid things, but he's reliable when he needs to be. Off the battlefield is a different story. I do not know the full details of the "Arcturian poontang story," but I know Frost spearheaded it and got all the guys in the unit at the time to be involved. I hear snippets of that story now and then, but I refuse to hear anymore of it. It sounds like a fucking embarrassment. Anyway, when he's not doing stuff like that, he contracts cabin fever like the rest of us, and finds ways to drive everyone nuts. I'm just glad I don't have to share a room with him. He's not all that sensitive, and he has managed to press all my buttons at one point or another.

But, whatever. Apone thinks he'd be a good choice, so, I have no say.

The three of us walked to Apone's office after dinner, and we were ordered to sit. Bishop left us alone, and closed the door on his way out. Frost got up to use a bathroom, and we were still waiting for Apone, so I smirked and slowly lifted my hand up . . . and lightly poked Vasquez on the nose.

"Are you trying to get yourself strangled?" she asked. "Don't do that."

I poked her shoulder.

"Drake, I'll break your other arm."

"Oh, come on, I'm not allowed to have any fun?"

"You're being annoying."

"I love you, too."

Eventually, Frost came back, and Apone walked in to sit across from us. He explained the situation Hicks was in, and that one of us was going to be a temporary "corporal" for the next three days. "Now, I picked you three because you each have some strong traits that would make you perfect to take over Hicks's duties, _but_ , I've been doing some thinking, and I want to try an experiment. You three all have some issues in regard to communication-Drake, don't roll your eyes at me-and with that in mind, I think it'd be interesting to have all of you share this position. Build up your communication skills-Drake, do I need to shove a boot up your ass?-and start taking on more responsibilities, you got that?"

With much reluctance, we all agreed to it.

* * *

I really wasn't thrilled about this plan of Apone's, but he's the boss, and you don't disobey your boss. That didn't mean I couldn't bitch about it to Wierzbowski, who was sitting with his back against Hicks's empty rack in my room while everyone else was in the lounge.

"Just do what you're told and don't piss anyone off," Wierzbowski said. "It's only for three days. Besides, I can guarantee Vasquez and Frost will start arguing before anyone gets up tomorrow morning."

"You got a point," I snorted. "I really don't care if they do, to be honest, as long as it doesn't get personal."

"You should care. Hicks puts a lot of effort into his job, and I don't think he'd want to see it reduced to squabbling among you guys."

"Well, whaddaya want me to do?"

"Care, for one thing. Don't let them argue-"

"Why didn't Apone pick you as the replacement?"

"I'm not leadership material, Drake. I'm better suited being given a task and completing it to the best of my ability. That's how I was as a civilian, and that's how I'll be as a Marine."

I glanced toward the window, noticing how dark it had gotten in the last hour. Mediterranean winters aren't that bad, but it was still too miserable. Rain droplets had appeared on the glass, and I looked at Wierzbowski, "So, what was your civilian life like?"

"It was alright. I didn't originally plan on going in the Marines, but my first plan ended up collapsing under me."

"What happened?"

"I . . . had a few problems with my marriage."

"You were married?"

"Was. I got divorced a few months before enlisting. We had a lot of disagreements, especially when I found out I was being used to pay off some of her old debts, and accumulate new ones."

"Sorry to hear that."

"It was probably my fault, to be honest. I never asked very many questions, but once I realized that it was my fault, I tried to be a little more social and talk more, but . . . it was difficult. I didn't enjoy it."

I nodded. "Lemme guess, people tried to push you into being a social butterfly?"

"No, not really. In the military, I've kinda gotten a grasp on how to balance out those more irritating parts of my personality, all while not being ashamed of them."

"How'd you learn that?"

"Being exposed to different scenarios where a variety of traits I possess are both tested and strengthened. It helps if you're not stubborn."

"Well," I sighed, "I'm stubborn. Guess I'm not balancing myself out anytime soon."

"You're definitely the type of person who doesn't feel like he has room to grow when working with other people. I mean, you can, but that doesn't mean you like it."

"Yeah. Is that bad?"

Wierzbowski shook his head. "Everyone learns in their own way, at their own pace. I know some people think it's bad when you prefer working by yourself-"

"Apparently, it's a sign I'm going to become a heartless, cold-blooded murderer or rapist or whatever. At least, that's what I heard." I sighed again, resting my head on my knees. "I did go to prison, but it was because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn't walk around killing innocents."

Wierzbowski was silent, as if he expected I was going to tell him my story.

"I was picked at random for a group of guys to mug. At the time, I was really frustrated with myself because I wasn't doing well in school, and I just . . . I didn't know what I wanted to do in life. I had multiple forces trying to push me in a certain direction, and I wasn't getting the room to think about myself. It . . . really weighed on me, you know, when it came to what other people want versus what I want. Eventually, I kinda snapped. I wanted to run away, but I didn't know how to do it. When I got mugged, I ended up shooting one guy, stealing his car, and running over his two buddies. I was missing for three days by the time the cops found me. Of course, I owned up to what I did, but that didn't stop me from feeling guilty and letting all that sit on me for the next two years."

"That definitely explains a lot of what I hear about you. No, I don't think it's selfish or wrong for you to attempt to think about yourself and care for yourself. You were never given that chance. Now that you're on your own, and with a new family-people that really do care about you-you're finally realizing what that deepest part of your heart wants."

"Yeah, I mean, I haven't found it yet. I think developing PTSD set me back on that."

Wierzbowski paused, and drew his legs up to rest his head on his knees. "Has Doctor Ranelli talked about post-traumatic growth with you?"

"No."

"Well, it's exactly what it sounds like; you grow and develop after going through a traumatic event."

I snorted. "Yeah, that'll take five fucking years to happen."

Wierzbowski shook his head. "No. I've seen you grow and change after you came back from the lab next to Gateway. I even mentioned it to you earlier, after you came back from your checkup. I think you just need to keep going, and take the opportunities that come your way. I know you're not thrilled about taking over Hicks's position, much less sharing it with two other people. But, at least it's two people you've known for a few years."

I nodded. "You have a point." I glanced toward the hallway when I heard laughter, and people leaving the lounge.

"Guess it's almost lights-out," Wierzbowski said, standing up. "I'll walk with you back to sick bay."

"Thanks." I walked alongside him as we went into the hallway. Hudson, Frost, and some of the guys from the other unit were all talking and laughing as they came out of the lounge. One of the other guys asked if I had been crying because of Hicks, and reached out to playfully slap my shoulder-you know, my right shoulder, close to where I'm injured.

Wierzbowski, being the big, strong guy he is, swiftly pulled me in front of him, giving the jeering kid a dirty look.

"Yeah, man, don't start fucking with Wierzbowski, man," Hudson said, nudging his group along. I heard him backhand the kid who tried to slap me. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Leave Drake alone."

I think most people would be very appreciative of their friends standing up for them and defending them. One part of me was appreciative, but another part wasn't. I felt like it was because they felt sorry for me, or because they thought bad of me in the past. Not to mention, I really haven't done anything to deserve it.

OK, OK, I know I saved Hudson's life. I know. At the same time, I _still_ don't feel like I deserve him sticking his neck out for me.

Instinctively, I wanted to talk to Hicks about this, but then I remembered that he's locked up for hitting a private. I didn't want to say anything to Wierzbowski, because I felt like that was going to fuck up the fragile friendship we've managed to build.

* * *

A lot of people say that if you sleep on your emotions, they'll fizzle out and you'll feel better in the morning. For me, that's not true. I picked at my breakfast and went about my early morning routine feeling like I punched myself in the stomach.

Again, Wierzbowski escorted me to my class, and the walk was dead-silent. I was sitting on a lid, trying to cover up that I felt like I did not deserve to be defended by anyone. What was the alternative, though? Everyone going back to pushing me away and letting me know around the clock that I'm meaningless. I don't know what's worse.

Sergeant Henley didn't come around to bother us again, thank God. I stepped into Ranelli's classroom and took my place at my station, listening to what Ranelli had to say about measurements and ingredients and spices and stuff like that. I don't recall if I was listening; I wrote things down like an android, just repeating, not learning.

Of course, I found myself working with Garen again. He tried to show me what I could do with the use of one arm, but that was pretty limited. I really wasn't listening. His words and instruction were going in my head, swimming around with the massive whirlpool of thoughts already there, not really helping in any way.

Eventually, the whirlpool turned into a lead weight, and it crashed down hard on the rest of my brain. I needed to leave the room, but I didn't want to miss the remainder of class. So, I stayed. I stayed, and I pretended to listen, all while the lid on my emotions slowly began to slide off the hot cauldron. I wasn't entirely sure what it was creating-something nasty for sure, and potentially explosive.

When class ended, I was carrying a bag of apple tarts, none of which I really made. I tossed them on Hudson's rack, and glanced at Hicks's. His rack had been neatly made, something he didn't hesitate to do every morning. Since no one was in the room, I knelt by Hicks's rack, and looked inside his space.

I knew he had a lot of photographs and quotes taped all over the underside of Spunkmeyer's bunk, but I never got a good look at them. There were several photos of himself and his friend, the one who'd committed suicide. There were old postcards of his hometown, tiny stickers of his state flag, letters from friends, different quotes about motivation and how not to let your obstacles beat you down. Stuff like that, and it all made me miss him.

Hicks has put a lot of effort into me, simply because he suffered a horrible loss and didn't want to see others go through something similar. Somehow, I feel like we've both earned our friendship, and I have no reason to think that I don't deserve anything from Hicks, and vice versa.

I just don't know how to exert that same effort into any of my other relationships.

* * *

 _Question: Is it too soon for Drake to be thrown into a non-combat situation where he has to work with others?_

 _Author's Note: This chapter had a couple of parts where I laughed at my own writing, mainly this one:  
_

 _Bishop: "How about Hudson?"  
_

 _Apone: "Are you fucking joking?"  
_

 _Because no one in their right mind puts Hudson in charge._


	12. Chapter 12

The last time I had someone yelling in my ear for me to wake up was in boot camp, so I wasn't expecting Apone to be in my sick bay room, shouting that Hicks was usually up early, which meant Frost, Vasquez, and I all had to be up early as well, so we could wake up everyone else as well.

I mean, he allotted me extra time to get dressed because of my sling, but that didn't make me any happier.

Only a week has passed since my surgery, so my throat is still bothering me. Not as bad as the days right after, but still enough to be moderately annoying. When I'm not fully awake and aware of my surroundings, I sound like crap. I had to bang on people's doors with a raspy voice and no one takes you seriously when you sound funny.

With a lot of blurry spots in my mind, I threw on my jacket and left sick bay. I could hear Vasquez dragging Ferro and Dietrich out of bed, and Frost waking up Crowe and Wierzbowski. That left Hudson and Spunkmeyer for me. I sighed as I made my way down the hall, and knocked on the door. "Hudson! Spunkmeyer! Time to get up!"

I didn't get a response, so I opened the door. The two were curled up in their bunks, snoring away. With that, I knocked on their beds, and tried my best to yell at them. As you can imagine, it didn't come out the way I wanted it to, and I broke off coughing a couple times. Instead of jolting up, Hudson and Spunkmeyer lifted their heads, looking at me like I was crazy.

"Are you OK, man?" Hudson asked.

"I'm fine. I was told to wake you up," I coughed.

"Hey, a little shoulder-shake is enough, bud," Spunkmeyer replied. "Don't strain yourself."

Once everyone was up and dressed, we headed to the mess hall. Without much of a surprise, Dietrich was yelling at Vasquez about how she was conducting herself as Hicks's replacement, accusing her of being rude, and bossy, and borderline cruel. Naturally, Vasquez fought back.

As exhausted as I was, I don't like people yelling at my girlfriend. Of course, I can't say that in front of everyone, but that didn't stop a slight rage from boiling in the pit of my stomach.

What I also didn't expect was the whole thing to get out of hand. First, Hudson goes in to defend Vasquez, and then Ferro started shouting that she should've gotten this position because she's a legitimate corporal. Vasquez started accusing her of being incompetent, which prompted Spunkmeyer to defend Ferro. Wierzbowski tried pulling people apart. Frost was yelling at everyone to sit down and shut up.

Before any fights could break out, Apone stepped into the room with a whistle, and blew that whistle long and hard. " _Siddown and close your pieholes!_ " he shouted.

Everyone sat without another word.

"Alright. What the hell's going on in here? Drake?"

"I didn't start it, sir," I said.

"I didn't ask who fucking started it. I wanna know what's going on, right now."

"Well . . . Dietrich was yelling at Vasquez, for some reason."

Apone looked at Dietrich. "Why?"

"She physically tried to pull me and Ferro from our bunks," Dietrich replied.

"You wouldn't get up!" Vasquez shouted.

"That doesn't give you the right to put your hands on anyone!"

"Knock it off!" Apone hollered. "That also doesn't give you the right to start fighting in the mess hall. Other Marines want their breakfast, and you two squabbling prevents them from doing so."

"She called Vasquez a 'cunt,' man," Hudson snarled. "I wasn't about to let that go."

"Well, Ferro brought up a good point that she's the only other corporal, and she didn't get the job," Spunkmeyer said. "What kinda bullshit is that?"

"It means she's pretty good at flying a dropship, but she's not good at being in charge," Frost replied.

"You haven't even let her try!"

"Alright, what part of 'that's enough' don't you people understand?" Apone banged his fist on the table. "This is not the first thing in the morning we need to do. Now, I don't want to hear another word from anyone until chow's over. Then, you can come to me with your problems, got it?"

* * *

I was glad I didn't have to deal with everyone's drama for most of the day. I got to go to my class, with Wierzbowski, and then Ranelli's office not too long after my class ended. In fact, I tried to extend my therapy session as long as I could.

Of course, I started by saying that I did not want to be put in charge of the unit. I didn't want to share those responsibilities, either. "It's not something I feel ready for, and I don't think I'll ever be ready for it."

"You're a better leader than you think you are, Drake," Ranelli said. "Perhaps, there is something a little more elaborate in Apone's plan to have the three of you be Hicks's temporary replacement."

"Enlighten me," I muttered.

"You, Vasquez, and Frost all have different personalities. At first glance, none of you seem like a prime choice to lead. However, if several of your traits are allowed to bounce off each other, and you utilize your strengths together, the three of you can make up the components of one leader. You just have to work together to see that."

"I still don't like it."

Ranelli sighed. "Figured you wouldn't. Give it a shot, Drake. There's no reason you should be fighting this."

"Actually, I do have one reason; why wasn't this given to Ferro? She's a corporal, and she's not a medtech, so she doesn't have more important things to do."

"That is something I don't know. I'm sorry."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon seemed to drag, and I had an overwhelming feeling to be left alone again. I knew that was just going to prompt my horrible thoughts to come to the surface and depress me, but I just needed some quiet time.

I found that quiet time in the laundry room. I sat on an empty clothing bag, next to the dryers, where it was warm. The hum of the machinery lulled me off, and I napped there, hoping no one would bother me.

At one point, I had the feeling that I was being watched, and I slowly opened my eyes to see Ferro looking at me. She didn't look happy, but her gaze softened when she saw I was awake. "Are you busy?" she asked.

"Do I look busy?" I replied.

Ferro sighed. "I need to talk to someone, that's all."

"Is this about how you're not taking Hicks's place?"

"Yeah."

"OK, well, I didn't want to be picked, if that makes you feel any better."

"I know. I didn't think you'd want it anyway. Believe me, I'm not mad at you or Vasquez or Frost."

"You're mad at Apone?"

"I don't think I should be mad at Apone. He's . . . He's right. I don't have a lot of experience being . . . in charge of people."

"I think it's got a lot more than just being in charge of people. You weren't promoted for no reason. You're good at what you do, and you should be proud of it. Your job is just as important as mine. Hell, you can't put any idiot in the cockpit of a dropship and expect them to know what they're doing, just like you can't just hand any idiot a smartgun and expect them to know how to use it. You really excelled at your job, and I feel like that carried a lot of weight when you were promoted. Granted, I don't know the whole story, but-"

"I know what you're saying. There were still things I had to do in order to qualify for promotion, but, no, those don't matter."

I detected a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "Be honest with me, sweetheart: have you been in any sort of leadership position since you got promoted? You don't do what Hicks does when we're out in the field, and, God forbid, we get called somewhere while he's still locked in the brig, we _need_ someone out there with us who has that type of experience. You don't have that kind of field experience."

"And you do?"

"I don't, but Frost and Vasquez do."

"Then why would Apone pick you?"

"He didn't just 'pick me.' He picked Frost, Vasquez, and me to split Hicks's responsibilities. It's all about improving communication between everyone, not just filling a space. Judging by what I saw this morning, I'd say that's not a bad idea."

Ferro didn't respond right away. "I'd thought you'd understand what it feels like to do something, and not be appreciated for it."

"I do understand. I understand that pretty damn well, actually. I'm just telling you what I know. And you know what? As your temporary replacement corporal, I'm ordering you not to be starting fights about this."

"You're still just a fucking private, Drake."

"And I was given some level of authority by Apone, so you can kiss my ass."

"I'm not listening to you."

* * *

OK, so I know I probably didn't handle that well. No, scratch that, I _definitely_ didn't handle that well.

I can't imagine Hicks would be very happy if he knew how badly his replacements were screwing up, and Apone certainly wasn't happy, either. In fact, he seemed to be regretting this decision, and, in all honesty, that's a rare thing to see from him.

After dinner, he brought me, Vasquez, and Frost into his office, and gave us a rundown of what happened throughout the day and what we needed to do to fix it. Vasquez argued that we only had two more days without Hicks, so what was the point of trying anything.

"That's not the kind of attitude I thought you'd have," Apone replied.

"I think it's pretty obvious these two-" Frost gestured to me and Vasquez, "don't give a shit about what they're doing. Drake's been hiding all day, and Vasquez went ahead and almost got Dietrich and Ferro hurt."

"Oh, yeah? And what've you been doing, smartass?" I asked.

"Knock it off," Apone snapped. "Did I, or did I not, explain to you three why I'm doing this? It's like you completely ignored what I said, and went off about your business. If you actually worked with each other, we wouldn't have this problem. Then again, maybe I was wrong about you. You're completely unfit for this."

I've been talking to Ranelli long enough that I know something like that actually means, "Prove to me that you can do this," and a part of me actually wanted to take that to heart.

However, that means doing things that I typically don't like doing, such as going to the lounge at night.

I think I've mentioned before that the lounge was OK when it was just our unit. Now, it's our unit, and Sergeant Foster's. I've gotten used to them, but that doesn't mean I like some of them. Corporal Vedder is fine. Lyden is . . . slowly becoming fine (she did stop hanging around Hudson so often). Neslie just needs to get used to the fact that none of us have broomsticks shoved up our asses, and Ariker . . . Ariker's honestly OK. When he's not playing psychological games with you, he's good to talk to. You just need to understand who he is and respect that. And Foster isn't as social as Apone, but he's not an asshole.

I've had flashbacks in crowded rooms before. Ranelli once explained to me that agoraphobia (basically, the fear of being in a situation where I could panic or feel helpless) can go hand-in-hand with PTSD. Honestly, I really don't care that my fears have a scientific name; all I care about is trying to get over it and control it.

Right now, I'm not ready to force myself to control it, so I needed a game plan of some kind if I start shutting down. After leaving Apone's office, I got Hudson and Wierzbowski to talk to them in private. "I need you guys to do me a favor."

"What, man?" Hudson asked.

"You both know that . . . I haven't been in the lounge at night because there's a lot of people. So, because I'm partially carrying Hicks's duties, I have to be in there now, because I have to play peacekeeper."

Hudson looked confused, but Wierzbowski picked up on what I was trying to say. "You want us to look out for you in case you have a panic attack or flashback or whatnot."

"Yeah. Could you?"

"Of course."

"I was gonna be playing poker with some of the guys from- _ow!_ " Hudson rubbed his chest after Wierzbowski elbowed him hard in the ribs. "Alright, I'll hang out with you, Drake."

"Thanks." I sighed. "Let's get this over with."

We walked into the lounge, and tried to find somewhere to sit. The couch was already taken up by some of the girls, so we glanced around, wondering if there were any other spots to sit where we wouldn't be bothered. Hudson paused by the vending machine to grab some candy bars and soda bottles. We ended up sitting at a small table at the other end of the room. Hudson passed me and Wierzbowski some chocolate, and smiled at us. "I got some more pictures from my girlfriend today." He took some photographs out of his pockets. "Check it out, man. Drake knows her, but Wierzbowski doesn't-look, that's her. Ain't she cute?"

"She is pretty, Hudson," Wierzbowski replied. "What's her name?"

"Miranda Harrison. I met her in D.C."

"This oughta be an interesting story."

Hudson's face fell. "You think it was a fucking hookup, don't you?"

"Alright, let's not, you know, jump to conclusions or arguments," I said, putting my hands on the table between them. "Wierzbowski, it wasn't a hookup. I knew Miranda from the first time I went to Washington, and she joined us for dinner one night, got talking with Hudson, and told me she liked him. After that, they went to a baseball game and . . . it worked out. They're dating."

"Oh. Well, sorry about that, Hudson." Wierzbowski grinned a little, but Hudson still looked embarrassed.

I gave another sigh. "Anyway, you would've met Miranda if you were with us at the Christmas party."

"I was home for once, thank God."

"Where do you live? I don't think you've ever told us that," Hudson asked.

"Southeast part of London."

"So, you probably went to boot camp with some of Foster's guys."

"If I did, I don't remember at all. That was five years ago."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight."

Hudson laughed. "Well, thanks for taking the 'oldest guy in the squad' award from me. Geez, I thought I was old at twenty-five, man!"

"That's if you don't count Apone," I said.

"That is true. And Hicks is younger than half of us, and he's already a corporal, man."

"I think he explained why; it's because he's a lifer and he gives a shit about his job."

"Honestly, I'm surprised he still is a lifer after all he's been through," Wierzbowski added.

"It's a long story, I guess. He's staying in because he doesn't want to see others go through what his friend went through. If he left, he'd be carrying a lot of emotional baggage that he doesn't think he can handle."

"I'd say he still is carrying that kinda baggage," Hudson said, softly. "Why else would he attack that private who knew about what his friend went through?"

"The problem with that is we still don't know if that's true," Wierzbowski replied.

"What does Garen have to gain from lying?" I asked. "Absolutely nothing. That's why I believe him. He didn't know me before I started taking that class. Plus . . . I can feel it in my gut that what he said is a piece in the puzzle of why General Paulson killed himself."

"It's been five years since Paulson died. I'm sure there are a ton of records that someone can look through in order to form a more complete picture of what happened."

"And that 'someone' is not going to be one of us," I said. "That duty should belong to his next of kin, or Hicks."

"This entire incident should remain with Hicks. I can't imagine how embarrassing this was for him."

"Yeah. Let's just stop talking about it, man," Hudson muttered. "We know too much."

"Actually, we don't know anything-"

"Enough," I sighed. "Leave it at that." I glanced around the lounge, not seeing anything that needed my attention. "You know, speaking of corporals, I'm starting to think that maybe this job should've been handed to Ferro. She was pretty upset about it earlier, and I don't necessarily blame her."

"Spunkmeyer was pissed, too. They've been working together for years, so I can't imagine he'd let something like this slide."

"Well, there's nothing we can do about it, now. Apone said that maybe Frost and Vasquez and I are actually incompetent. I took that as 'prove to me you guys can do this.'"

Hudson snorted. "So far, you haven't, man."

"True. Working together isn't my strong suit."

"It more depends on who you're working with," Wierzbowski said. "You already work with Vasquez regularly."

"But I generally don't work with Frost. We don't get along that well anyway."

"If you talk business with him, he doesn't fool around, man," Hudson added.

"OK. What we need to do is create a situation where we put our heads together. Obviously, we're not in the field, so we need to . . . I dunno, find something around here to do."

"Cleaning the showers would be a fine start," Wierzbowski whispered.

"The whole fucking bathroom, man. It's getting gross." Hudson opened another candy bar.

"I'm just surprised no one suffocates when they go in after you," I mumbled. "We should get exhaust fans installed or something. Nine times outta ten, the fucking rations don't agree with us and the entire hallway becomes a biohazard."

Hudson looked at me like I presented a good idea. "You know, man . . . you should go to Apone with that."

Wierzbowski shook his head. "He'll never agree to that. It's way too much work. May as well propose remodeling the whole base."

"That's not a bad idea, either, man-"

I held up my hands. "Alright, alright. Look, we may not get some exhaust fans, but we will definitely be told to clean the bathrooms at some point. I'll bring that to Apone's table tomorrow, and see how that goes."

"The fans or cleaning the bathrooms?"

"Cleaning the bathrooms, dumbass. Although, if you think about it, the whole base really does need to be torn down and remodeled."

I know what you're thinking; how in God's name is something as simplistic as cleaning a bathroom gonna prove that we're capable of being replacement corporals? I'll be honest . . . I don't know. This is something I'm going to throw at the wall, and see if it sticks.

* * *

 _Question: Over the course of the series, how has Drake proved his competence (or incompetence) at being a leader?_

 _Author's Note: I would like to thank Denal Douglas (I hope you're enjoying your third read-through of the series, by the way) for pointing out some issues regarding Apone's decision to skip over Ferro. It wasn't something I considered when writing the chapter, and for that, I do apologize. Addressing the issue through the coming chapters makes for more interesting conflict rather than deleting a massive chunk of writing and denying more development to some of these characters. I hope that doesn't appear unprofessional._


	13. Chapter 13

It really wasn't difficult to get the stuff we needed to clean both the men's bathroom and the women's bathroom. With only three girls, though, I sent Spunkmeyer and Crowe to assist them. Of course, the girls' bathroom was a fuck-ton cleaner than the guys', but I also reminded myself that they don't engage in "distance contests" at the urinals. Hell, they don't even have urinals.

I took one look around the ladies' room, then looked at Spunkmeyer and Crowe. "If I hear you two were goofing off, I'll be shoving my smartgun so far up your ass, you will feel it in the back of your throat."

Spunkmeyer rolled his eyes and snorted. "Oh, relax, Drake."

"Don't argue with me. You wouldn't argue with Hicks, would you?" I left before Spunkmeyer could respond, but I did hear him mutter, "Asshole," once I was out in the hall.

I was in charge of overseeing the guys clean their bathroom, while Vasquez oversaw the girls. Frost would go back and forth between us, adding a hand if it was needed. Bishop doled out the supplies, and had to lug a very large bucket of a highly basic cleaning fluid out of the storage closet. This stuff is more potent than pure bleach. So potent that you have to wear a mask and gloves when handling it, and some people will feel really sick if they smell it. Unfortunately, I'm one of them, as is Wierzbowski.

Hudson dipped a mop in the stuff and slopped it all over the floor in front of the sinks. It didn't take very long for me and Wierzbowski to develop blinding headaches and nausea as the scent hit us, and while I felt a little better after moving to a different spot, poor Wierzbowski really needed to go lie down. It was mildly funny seeing tiny, skinny little Ariker walk the big guy down to sick bay, but then it was right back to work.

"We need a new trash bag, man!" Hudson called after dumping a dustpan full of crap and hair and . . . other crap into the can by the door.

"I'll go get one," Frost replied.

"Go get somebody from the girls' room," Apone said. "They're probably done already. I want someone working on these showers. They're filthy."

"Hudson's working on the toilets, Sarge," I explained.

"I still gotta finish sweeping, man." Hudson walked to the back of the room, beginning to sweep up the crap from behind the end stalls. At one point, he paused, and then bent over to pick something up. He waited until Apone left the bathroom to go yell at one of the guys for not moving quick enough to help us, and then walked up to me, holding an empty metal flask. "Hey, Drake? I found this back behind one of the stalls," he said, softly. "Somebody's been drinking in here."

Something heavy dropped in the base of my heart when I took the flask from Hudson. We have the privilege to go out and have a casual drink in town outside the base, and we're all pretty responsible with it. Finding this flask meant someone had a problem.

The big question was who.

* * *

I've never dealt with alcohol problems before. I've seen people who have to deal with an alcoholic in their life on a daily basis, but I've never dealt with it myself. I wasn't even sure this was a problem yet, and that's why I didn't take it right to Apone.

When the bathrooms were clean, I gathered up all the guys in our unit, and headed down to one of the instructional rooms near the mess hall. When the door was shut, I took out the flask, which I had sealed in a plastic bag. "This was found in the men's room today while we were cleaning," I said. "I want to know who it belongs to."

No one spoke up.

I took a breath. "It used to belong to someone in this room. It's not mine, and it doesn't belong to someone in the other unit because they have their own set of bathrooms."

"Maybe it's Hicks's," Crowe said.

"It's not Hicks's, man," Hudson replied.

"Well, how do you know?"

"That's enough," I demanded. "No, I don't think it belonged to Hicks. One, I don't think it's in his nature, and two, it looks and smells recent. Too recent for Hicks, because as you guys know, he's in the brig. Look," I sighed, "I don't want to see anyone get in trouble, and I don't want to see any of you suffer. If you come forward now, you can save yourself a lot of trouble. It's not that hard for someone to do a saliva test on this flask, and it's also not hard for someone to order a surprise piss test. You're not getting away with this. We have help available to you, don't fight it."

It took me a moment to realize that maybe it was a bad idea to do this in a room full of people. Maybe whoever this flask belonged to would rather say something in private.

I swallowed nervously. "Alright. I'm giving you twenty-four hours to say something to me alone. If I don't hear anything within that time, I'm telling Apone, and handing the flask over to the medtechs for testing, is that understood?"

Again, nothing.

As the guys left the room, no one approached me afterward, and that gave me the impression that this was going to be harder than it should be.

The dinner hour was quiet. I kept glancing around the table, wondering if anyone was showing the signs of guilt that I know all too well-picking at their food, hunching in themselves, looking a little depressed. So far, no one was showing it.

 _Guilt is incredibly powerful. Someone must be doing a damn good job at hiding it, and I can imagine it's extremely painful._ I looked down at my food, my own appetite not really there. _Whose bright fucking idea was it to create whole wheat pasta?_ I glanced over at Hudson, who was putting a large forkful of this sad excuse for chicken alfredo in his mouth. "And you wonder why we call you the living garbage disposal," I muttered.

"What?" Hudson asked with his mouth full.

"Never mind. Do you want the rest of my dinner?"

"You haven't touched it, man. You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Drake, eat your dinner," Frost said, not looking over at us.

"I said, I'm not hungry."

"Don't you start this bullshit again, Drake," Apone replied. "You're not three years old."

I snapped, but I tried to keep it from exploding outwards. I stood up, and let some of that anger leak out when I threw the tray into the window where we get served.

The rest of the table was silent, and I could feel them all watching me as I stormed out of the mess hall. That's just salt in the wound.

I can't fully explain why I snapped because of something so silly and stupid. It was probably because of everything building up throughout the day, while I drained the rest of my energy away at being partially in charge. This was definitely something outside my comfort zone, and I didn't like it.

I really hoped Ranelli was in his office when I marched down to sick bay. He looked ready to turn in for the night when he opened the door, and let me in. "Didn't expect to see you drop by," he said. "Everything alright?"

"No. I . . . I broke. All day, I've been trying to prove to Apone that I am capable of being a good replacement for Hicks, and I'm trying to prove to everyone else that they can come to me with their issues. I-well, actually, it was Hudson-found a flask in the men's room, and I want to know who left it. So far, no one's said anything to me, and I feel like it's . . . because I'm not trustworthy. Then, you know, I don't want to eat at dinner. Everyone's trying to force me to eat, so I got up, dumped it, and left." My throat was tightening painfully.

"You heaped a lot on your shoulders, it sounds like. But, let's go back for a minute; you said someone found a flask inside the men's bathroom?"

"Yeah."

"And you're certain this is a sign that one of you gentlemen has a drinking problem?"

"There's no other reason that flask would be there."

"OK. The reason no one is coming forward to you, has nothing to do with you. This is a habit they've gotten into, and habits, both good and bad, are difficult to break. You have a multitude of bad habits that I'm trying to help you break. Drinking excessively on a regular basis is a bad habit. This person got started, and maybe doesn't feel like they can stop. They're controlled by it, and it's not likely they'll come forward. That's why we have intervention. It has nothing to do with you."

I nodded.

"Plus, you know your teammates. Don't approach them with scorn. With patience, we'll find out why they started, and how we can help them."

Another nod.

"Now, let's go back to your issue at hand, which is, you snapped and became angry after a day of trying to prove to Apone and to the entirety of your unit that you're capable of being a leader." Ranelli was quiet, and then looked at me with raised eyebrows. "What do you think is wrong with that picture, Drake?"

"I don't fucking know."

"You jumped right to 'proving to others.' What is the point of proving something to other people when you can't even prove it for yourself?"

"I'll never be able to tell myself that I'm capable of doing anything."

"That's not true. That's what we're working on. You need to be able to say to yourself, 'I can do this. I'm comfortable with how I am right now.'"

"And it feels like that won't happen. At least not soon."

"It will. You just need to give yourself a chance. Right now, you're keeping your best self from emerging. You don't believe in it. You tell it that it's no good. You need to stop. Let your best self come out into the light. Let it grow and flourish. Let it be able to beat back your worst self."

I sighed. "How?"

"Do what feels natural to you. Don't do what your PTSD wants you to do. Your PTSD wants you to shut down, to be angry over the little things, to be depressed all the time, to make you feel guilty for things you didn't do, to taunt you and make you relive the moments that terrified you. At the same time, if you genuinely feel angry, or sad, or upset, don't suppress it. Don't dismiss all negative emotions as being part of your post-traumatic stress. Think about why you're sad or angry, and if hurts, let it out. Cry. Tell someone. If you hold it back, it will attempt to control you."

I thought for a moment. "Doc, what am I supposed to do . . . when I'm a civilian again, a-and I feel . . . awful when I'm on a job? How do I keep myself from embarrassing my employer and coworkers and myself?"

"You shouldn't be worrying about that right now. You still have a few years before that's even a possibility. By then, I'm sure you will have mastered techniques to keep your symptoms under control."

I could feel that tiny glimmer of hope lift itself and hover off the bottom of my heart. I could feel it trying to get brighter.

* * *

I didn't sleep that well last night, mainly because I felt like my dreams were trying to tell me something. Hicks was sitting across from me in a white room, next to a large floor-to-ceiling window. The sun was setting and the lights of the city were flickering on. Hicks glanced out the window, and said, "Don't trust him."

 _Don't trust who?_

That was the only thing he said to me. I noticed he was drinking water. I got up, and went over to a table where Hudson was sitting.

"Don't trust him, man." Hudson also had a water.

I moved to Vasquez. She, too, was drinking water. "Don't trust him," she said.

Ferro. Same thing. Apone, Spunkmeyer, Dietrich, Crowe, Frost. All saying the same thing. All holding glasses of water.

There was someone missing. Wierzbowski.

When I awoke, I didn't believe it. I cannot believe Wierzbowski would be the one drinking in the bathroom. It just doesn't fit him. It doesn't make sense. _It was just a dream. It doesn't mean anything._

Right?

I chose not to say anything when I got up to go wake everyone for breakfast. No one was going to believe that a dream revealed to me who was drinking in the bathroom, but I had to tell somebody.

Before heading down to the mess hall, I went looking for Hudson. He wasn't in his room, and he's never late for breakfast, so I assumed he was in the restroom. Sure enough, he was. I could hear him muttering to himself in one of the stalls.

"Hudson? Can I talk to you for a minute?" I asked.

"How'd you know it was me, man?"

"You're talking to yourself. Are you OK?"

"I'm OK. Just . . . never give me double servings of whole wheat shit again, man. That's too much fiber for me. I shoulda been in and outta here an hour ago."

"You've been sitting in here for an hour?"

"No. I meant . . . look, just tell Apone I got sluggish bowels this morning, man. I'll be down in a minute. Or ten. No, most likely twenty. Or-"

 _Too much information, buddy. Good God._ "That's not why I'm here, Hudson. I . . . I had a weird dream last night, and I need to tell someone."

"OK."

I took a breath. "We were all in this big white room, and I was going from table to table. You and everyone else were holding glasses of water, and telling me, 'Don't trust him.' That's when I noticed Wierzbowski wasn't there. I'm assuming . . . that dream was telling me he's the one who's been drinking in the bathroom."

Hudson was quiet for a minute. "Have you talked to Wierzbowski, man?"

"I'm afraid to. I just . . . can't believe it could be him. We've been talking to each other for the last week or so, and . . . he hasn't given me any reason to believe he has any kind of problems."

"Maybe he doesn't feel ready to tell you, man."

"I told him about my problems."

Hudson sighed. "Everyone knows about your problems. It's not a secret anymore."

"I told him about my past. Not everyone here knows about my past."

"Big deal, man. He doesn't want to open up to you yet. You should know how that feels."

"I do know how it feels."

"Then don't be an asshole when you talk to him. Make it clear you're worried, man."

I didn't say anything right away. "Hudson, how long do you think you're gonna be in there? Breakfast started ten minutes ago."

"I don't know, man," Hudson moaned. "Just tell Sarge I don't feel good."

"OK, I will." I left the restroom, and headed down to the mess hall.

"Jesus, Drake what took you so long?" Apone asked, not looking up from the table. "And where's Hudson?"

"Oh, Hudson's not feeling well, sir," I replied, sitting down.

"Is he in sick bay?"

"No. He's just a little constipated. Should be here in about twenty minutes."

There were snickers around the table. "Does he need company?" Spunkmeyer asked.

"No, he probably needs a midwife," Frost laughed. "'Now breathe, and push!'"

"Someone should go bring him some of that probiotic yogurt."

"Mix some laxatives in it first," I added, "and you might wanna run in case he explodes."

"Drake, Spunkmeyer, knock it off," Vasquez demanded.

We were laughing too hard to care. A few minutes later, Hudson did show up, looking a little tired. "Sorry I'm late, man," he sighed. "Feels like I lost a good fifteen pounds. God, never eating whole wheat pasta again."

"That's enough, Hudson." Apone glared at me, Frost, and Spunkmeyer when we cracked up. "You three will be cleaning the pool if you don't knock it off. Like you all got the maturity of a six-year-old."

Frost had tears running down his face. "Drake, pass me the yogurt."

"Sure thing." I handed him the bowl from the middle of the table, and he passed it to Hudson.

"Here you go, bud." Frost patted Hudson's shoulder. "Should help with any future problems."

"Alright, boys, that's enough," Apone said. "I've said before that I don't need you talking about your bathroom doings at the Goddamn table, but-" he waited until we were quiet, "I will say that I am impressed at how clean both bathrooms are now. I didn't think you'd put that much effort in, but you did, and I'm proud. For that, I'm gonna take you all down to the grill tonight, and I'm footing the bill, got it?"

"I didn't know the base had a grill, man," Hudson muttered.

"It's usually reserved for NCOs and officers, but I got you people in just for tonight. It's a reward. We're not doing this every single day. Now, I expect you all to behave. No getting drunk. No flirting with other Marines. No starting fights. All I ask, OK?"

"Yes, sir," everyone replied.

In all honesty, I wasn't very excited about going to the grill. I know it's a good place to eat, because Ranelli's allowed in there and he told me that it's incredibly nice for an on-site establishment, but that's not why I wasn't excited. Not at all.

If there's one thing officers and NCOs are good at, it's reading people. They have to be able to do that; they can't command if they don't understand their subordinates and higher-ups. They'll be able to tell, just by looking at me, that there's something wrong with me. I have to suppress everything in order to avoid attention I don't want.

I have to put that mask back on. God knows I don't want to.

Worse yet, Hicks isn't going to be there.

" _We can't be there for you all the time._ "

Why did I have to be tested on my mental strength so soon?

* * *

Even without tonight looming on the horizon, I still had a lot of shit to worry about. Namely, confronting Wierzbowski.

I really didn't want to. I was scared. I didn't know how he was going to respond, and I still didn't believe it was him, based on a dream, of all things.

Dreams are funny, though. Ranelli believes that it's possible for dreams to have meaning on various levels. Even my nightmares have meaning: they mean I haven't gotten over my trauma. They can be as simple as that, or a little more complex. It depends on the person having them.

I went into Ranelli's office right after breakfast, and explained to him what happened in that dream. He nodded the whole time, and then folded his hands on the table before speaking. "I'm thinking two things, Drake; one is this could possibly mean that Wierzbowski was indeed drinking, and two is that you're afraid for your friendship with him. It hasn't been that long since you started deepening your bonds, so it's still a little fragile."

"I've been open about my past and problems with him. Why wouldn't he tell me about his own problems?"

"I just said, your relationship is still blossoming. He may not feel quite ready to talk to you about things he's going through right now."

 _That's almost exactly what Hudson said._ "Why?"

"That's just how some people are. Pushing them only makes them less likely to open up. You experienced that with Hicks. He experienced that with you. I've dealt with it among Marines and civilians alike. Repeated pushing just backs them further into a corner, and it will take awhile for them to say anything. Sometimes, it leads them to snap and cut ties with loved ones, and they continue to stew in their problems. And, let's be real, Drake, just because you opened up to Wierzbowski, doesn't make him obliged to open up to you. If you want to keep having a good relationship with him, you'll be kind, but you'll also be honest. Voice your concern, but don't demand that you must know everything, OK?"

I nodded, sighing softly. "Alright."

* * *

There were a few hours left to go before I bring the flask to Apone and tell him what happened. I knew I was gonna have to be honest, and explain why I didn't do it sooner, but I felt prepared.

The nervous knot in my stomach had risen up to my throat when I found Wierzbowski re-racking a set of weights in the gym. Hudson was yakking away to Frost about going to the grill tonight, and I kept glancing at them from the corner of my eye.

"'Morning, Drake. You need anything?" Wierzbowski asked. He turned to face me, and frowned. "What's the matter? You look upset."

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. "I need to talk to you alone."

We walked through a short tunnel by the locker rooms to get into the gymnasium, which was completely empty. I climbed up to the middle of the bleachers, hoping we were far away enough from anyone listening in on us. Taking a breath, I toyed with the bones around my neck before saying anything. "Yesterday, you know we found a flask in the men's room, and I tried to get someone to come forward and tell me whose it is. Well, I was wrong to do that with everyone all in that room, and I decided to let everyone go, and let whoever come to me privately. Anyway, last night, I had . . . a very strange dream that . . . suggested to me that . . . you're the one who's been drinking in the bathroom."

The silence was making all the knots tighten as hard as they could.

Finally, Wierzbowski spoke. "You know, that's funny, because I had a dream last night that I walked into my room and found you looking in my rack. I thought it was nothing, but . . . I guess it actually meant something. I-I really am sorry that I didn't say anything to you."

"So, you-"

"Yes, I've been drinking in the bathroom. It . . . was something I did when I got my divorce. I hated drinking in public, so I'd go out, buy a bottle of whatever, and drink at home. When I enlisted, the recruiter told me that I needed to stop, and I wanted to get in so bad that I quit cold-turkey. I passed, and for the last several years, I've been fine. It kinda started back up again when I went home for Christmas this past year. That . . . That was a mistake on my part. I don't entirely know what happened while I've been gone, but I just know that a few relatives aren't getting along. My former in-laws still like meeting up with my parents, and I guess they started arguing about my divorce, and my ex-wife wasn't there, so they decided to accuse me of what happened. I didn't want to deal with that, so I left, I got something at the liquor store, and went to my apartment to sit and drink and not think anymore."

"And you carried it when you came back."

He nodded. "Sure did. When it gets quiet, I start thinking about it. I start thinking about what I lost and the life I could've had if I hadn't been used as a tool for my ex-wife to make more debt. I don't want to think about it, so I take my flask, I go into the bathroom when everyone's asleep, and I have a drink. I guess I accidentally left it in there a few nights ago. Maybe that was a good thing. I've . . . I-I've been able to control myself and not get myself too buzzed, but . . . it's still not right. It's awful, and I could get myself in trouble if I'm not careful. I mean, I don't ever want to get in trouble."

"Why didn't you go to my therapist when you realized that you're starting bad habits again?"

"Because I could get kicked out if the USCM gets wind that I drank illegally on base. They can see if I get put on Ranelli's records."

I thought for a moment. "If you accept help, they won't do anything. I was afraid of getting kicked out because I've got PTSD. I mean, if you're that scared . . . maybe you can try cold-turkey again. Instead of going in the bathroom to drink, come to me. I'm allowed in the lounge at night if I need to sit and talk to someone about my nightmares, so . . . just wake me and we can go there and talk."

Wierzbowski nodded again. "I'll give it a shot."

"And, hey, if it doesn't work out, I'll let Ranelli know what's going on. He won't get you in trouble, I promise."

A faint smile crossed Wierzbowski's face. "I trust you, Drake. Thanks."

I've never been the one to keep a secret before. Usually, I'm the one dumping secrets on someone else. This feeling of being trusted, of being expected to be helpful in something personal, was a weirdly good feeling.

But, I knew that things could go wrong pretty quickly wherever I was involved. Throughout the rest of the day, I could feel my hope trying to wrestle with my hopelessness, and I was both afraid and certain that my hopelessness was going to win.

* * *

 _Question: How would the flask finding be different if Hicks was around?_

 _Author's Note: Don't feel bad about leaving long comments. I enjoy reading them. And if you feel like commenting on previous stories, go right ahead._


	14. Chapter 14

I managed to get rid of the flask as discreetly as possible. There's a garbage room where every unit goes to drop the giant plastic bags of crap into a massive chute, which leads to a dumpster, which is picked up by a truck once a week. No one is gonna know.

I volunteered to take the garbage from the men's room down to the dump hall. No one gave me a second glance as I wheeled the large can down the hall. Only I knew that there was a concealed flask buried in it. Of course, it was a challenge trying to tip the thing into the chute with one arm, but I did it.

You may be surprised to hear that the guilt I felt for discarding the flask without saying anything to Apone was minimal. I was determined to help Wierzbowski on my own. I felt like this was the way to prove to myself that I was capable of being in a leadership role.

In the meantime, we weren't allowed into the grill in just our tank tops and T-shirts, so before we headed out for that evening, we had to put on our jackets. Mine was folded up in my rack, so I got to go down and see Hudson and Spunkmeyer.

And Hicks's rack. It was still very neat, and it still made my heart feel heavy. I really did miss him, but at the same time, I didn't know how he would've handled finding a flask in the bathroom. It would've upset him pretty bad, and he probably would've outright embarrassed Wierzbowski. I can see the glare in Hicks's eyes now.

Hudson helped me get my jacket on with my sling, and then asked if I was going to sit with him at the grill.

"Are you going to be a moron the whole time?" I asked.

"What? You don't want us having any kinda fun, man?" Hudson snorted.

"You heard what Apone said," Spunkmeyer muttered. "No extra booze."

Hudson didn't reply, but he did give me a dirty look. "I've been real nice to you, man. The least you could do is leave me alone and let me have fun with some of my other friends."

"Don't come crying to me when you do something you regret," I snarled. _That's fine. I'll be sitting with Wierzbowski, keeping him company._

I really hoped no one did anything stupid that night, and yet, I just didn't care. That mix of feelings-being worried about Hudson making a fool of himself in front of officers and NCOs, and simply not caring because I didn't want to worry anymore-was creating a bad concoction in the pit of my stomach.

When I left the room, I went next door, where Frost, Crowe, and Wierzbowski were zipping up their jackets and grabbing things they needed. I greatly appreciated Wierzbowski smiling when he saw me, but I didn't let anyone see it on my face. Good practice for when I have to conceal everything in front of everyone in a few minutes.

"Do you need something, Drake?" he asked.

"Just . . . seeing if everyone's ready," I said.

Wierzbowski didn't say anything as he walked out into the hall, gently taking my shoulder. "You look like something's bothering you."

"I don't want to fucking go. I really don't. I don't care that this is a reward. I don't want to go." I tried to keep my anger under control, letting it leak out slowly.

"I don't think you have to go if you don't want to-"

"I'm doing Hicks's job. I have to go."

"Frost and Vasquez-"

"Doesn't matter. I don't have a choice."

"Drake, relax for a minute, alright? Just . . . say something to Apone if you really don't want to go."

"No. He's gonna tell me to go anyway, that I can't keep running away from everything that makes me uncomfortable. And you know what? He's right."

I could tell Wierzbowski felt sorry for me, but he also appeared as though he knew there was more roiling beneath my surface. He wasn't sure what to say, so he shrugged before turning back to go in his room.

That was when Apone called us all down to the hall outside the public area of the base. He looked us over, and told me, Vasquez, and Frost to walk in front as we headed into the passageway. I actually felt kinda sick as we entered the next complex, even though Apone was doing all the talking and directing.

A captain walked by us, and something cold clenched in my gut. I tried to let my face relax, but I refused to give him the impression that I had anything wrong with me.

"Where're you guys and girls headed?" The captain gave us a warm smile.

"Oh, we did a good job at cleaning the bathroom, so we get to eat at the grill tonight, man," Hudson said.

The captain's smile stayed, but it seemed to morph into something a tad more pitiful. "Yeah. Enjoy yourselves, because that's the last time any of y'all are going, unless you got plans to get NCO or higher. Have a good evening, fellas." He left, and I felt as though the already-cold mix of emotions were beginning to freeze to the inside of my stomach.

The grill was kinda what you'd expect any ordinary civvie establishment would look like. It smelled really smoky and warm and there was music playing on one end and sports on the other. The bar was a circular counter, and a guy was walking around a large display of beers and wines and whiskeys, among other liquors, to get people's orders. The waiters and waitresses (all civilians) were bustling in and out of two doors leading to the kitchen in back. Officers, NCOs, and their families were seated at booths and tables all over the place.

I instinctively went toward a corner booth, with a window looking out into the central part of the public complex. No one would see me there, right? I was alone for only a few minutes, but an overwhelming sense of sadness and fear crashed over me like a giant wave.

I really did try to gauge those feelings, like Ranelli said. Were they genuine, or were they part of my PTSD? Even if they are part of my PTSD, I can't dismiss them.

A waitress was going around, handing menus to the others. Somehow, she skipped over me, going right to the next table. Now, a normal person would speak up. I didn't, and I cursed myself, because I knew this meant I was letting my emotions control me.

Well, like I said, I wasn't alone for very long. Eventually, Wierzbowski came and sat across from me, and Vasquez sat next to me. We heard laughter, and looked over at the other end of the diner to see the rest of the unit all sitting at one table. A dull ache began creeping into my heart.

"Don't worry about them, Drake," Wierzbowski said.

"They didn't even ask where you were, so, don't pay them a second glance," Vasquez added. "Are you OK?"

"For now, yeah," I replied. "I'm . . . I'm just-"

"No, Hudson didn't ask, either."

"I knew that. It's my fault anyway."

We looked up again when Ferro walked over, and sat next to Wierzbowski. "Hey, guys. Mind if I join you?"

"Go ahead," I said.

"Did . . . you and Hudson have a fight?"

"Not exactly. Why?"

"Well, I asked if he wanted you to join everyone else, and he said, 'No, he'll ruin everything. Let's just ignore him and have fun for once, man.'"

The ache suddenly ruptured, leaving cracks all over my heart. "He really said that, didn't he?"

"I don't think he means it," Wierzbowski said. "He'll probably apologize when we go back in a few hours. Besides, you have us."

Finally, the waitress came back around with menus, and asked what we wanted to drink and whether or not we wanted an appetizer. Almost as soon as we got our drinks, Spunkmeyer approached us, sighing while grabbing a chair to sit at the booth. "You don't mind I sit with yous, right?"

"Not at all. The more, the merrier," I replied.

"Well, good, because I ain't dealing with Hudson and Frost's shit anymore. You can only hear about crappy dates and sex for so long before you decide, 'I'm done. You two suck at love.' Besides, they won't let anyone else talk."

"Felt a little left out?"

"Pretty much." Spunkmeyer looked at me. "By the way, Drake, I'm sorry for calling you an 'asshole,' yesterday. You're just doing what you're told to do. I mean, you're right, I'd never talk back that way to Hicks."

"Isn't he getting out tomorrow morning?" Wierzbowski asked.

"I heard he might get out tonight. All depends on behavior," Ferro said.

I sighed. "Whenever he gets out, be nice to him. He's probably not gonna be feeling good."

"It's not like they shut you in and turn the lights off the whole time," Spunkmeyer replied.

"You've been to the brig?"

"I wasn't _in_ the brig, but I did have chow duty on my first base right after I got outta training, so I had to wheel trays of food down to the cellblock and give the guys their meals. There's no windows, just big lights in every little cell. It's kinda dingy and the only sound you really hear is the buzzing from the fucking light and the other guys breathing. Every cell is the same. One bed, one toilet, and when you gotta go, you pretty much have to go in front of the guy across the hall. I'm looking around, and I says, 'Jesus Christmas, I can't shit with somebody watching me.' And then a guard says, 'When you gotta go, you gotta go.'"

Ferro grinned a little. "No, he really won't shit if someone is near him."

"I'm serious! I can't!" Spunkmeyer laughed. "Like, if I hear somebody enter the restroom when I'm in there, my body's like, 'Uh, nope!' and I can't do anything."

I took a sip of my whiskey. "Gee, maybe you can join me and Hicks as the mentally ill in this unit. I've got PTSD, he's got bipolar two, and you have anxiety."

Now Spunkmeyer was crowing with laughter. "That's pretty good, Drake! Yeah . . . maybe. Maybe. I don't think it's a major issue with me, though. It's just a quirk I've had since I was little."

"Honestly, you are one big quirk sometimes," Ferro said, giving Spunkmeyer a playful nudge.

I've never had this kind of interaction with Spunkmeyer before. It was nice to have him talk to me like I was an old friend, and I decided not to divert the conversation into something that could potentially hurt that feeling. It was even nicer that people were sitting with me, and not looking depressed. I was able to laugh and smile, and just . . . feel happy.

I wasn't wearing a mask. That was probably the best part. I wasn't suffering the pain of maintaining something I wasn't feeling. I was actually happy.

Being happy can be exhausting, especially when paired with laughter. I learned quite a bit about Spunkmeyer that night, and I've never really seen him in this good of a mood before. There was a point, however, where I stopped laughing. I stopped smiling. I stopped responding. I had no more energy for it.

I found myself on the verge of a crash, and I wasn't sure what to do about it. Do I put the mask on? Do I say something?

The last thing I wanted to do was go hide in the bathroom, but I felt like I didn't have a choice there. I told Vasquez I needed to get up, and she moved to let me out of the booth. In order to get to the restroom, I had to go by the table where everyone else in the unit was sitting. Hudson was clearly tipsy, and slurring on to Frost about . . . well, me, of all things.

I had no energy to do or say anything. I walked into the restroom, and locked myself in a stall. To keep people from thinking there was someone in there, I sat on the back of the toilet, so no one saw my boots and would hopefully think the stall was out of order. The lid and seat were up, so my tears were dripping down into the toilet water.

Several long minutes went by before I heard the door open, and a familiar accented voice say, "Drake? Is everything alright?"

I really didn't want to explode on Wierzbowski. Not at all. "Is there anyone else in here?" I asked.

"No. It's just the two of us," he replied. "The others're getting worried about you. Something not agreeing with you?"

I swallowed past a lump in my throat. "No, that's not it."

"Can you come out, please?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't think you're in here because you like sitting alone in the restroom."

I sighed, and unlocked the stall.

"You looked like you were actually enjoying yourself, Drake. What happened?"

"I crashed. I can't . . . I can't be happy for long periods of time. It's like I never have enough energy for it."

The look on Wierzbowski's face told me he had no idea how to help with that. We both knew how he dealt with his sadness, and we both knew that it wasn't going to solve anything.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know I'm . . . I'm ruining everyone's fun. That's why people would rather sit with Hudson. He doesn't weigh them down with emotional problems or emit this nasty air of frustration and sadness and anger."

"Drake, do me a favor, and look past your fog of issues for just one minute. Did you hear Spunkmeyer talking at our table? I haven't heard him that happy or open in a long time, and I don't think you have, either. He didn't . . . He didn't observe you before opening his mouth; he just went right on talking. We all do understand what's going on with you right now. Granted, none of us are suffering what you have, but, we've all got our own little problems, and we know that you need an extra ounce of care. That being said, you're not unbearable to be around. You keep secrets, you're very understanding, and you let people vent or talk when they want to. I would never have told you about my past or readily admitted my problems if I didn't feel like I could trust you. People do trust you, and they do like you. Hell, I just said that the others are worried about you, wondering what's taking you so long."

"Yeah, you did say that," I sighed.

"So, come on out. Come join us. Be amongst friends."

I had to smile, just a little, at that. I did leave the stall, and the restroom, and followed Wierzbowski back out to our table.

Spunkmeyer tugged on my sleeve as I sat down. "Drake, Drake, Drake, I gotta ask you something-first, you doing OK?"

"For now, yeah," I said.

"Good. OK, now, Ferro says that the first thing everyone-guys and girls-judges when they look for a date is somebody's appearance, but guys will do it more often. I say, that's not true, because girls will go on about how hot a guy is before actually approaching them. Whaddaya think?"

"I think it depends on the person. I study body language before approaching someone."

"He's right. It does depend on the person," Ferro replied.

Spunkmeyer looked at her with mock annoyance. "Oh, you'll agree with him, but not me? You're killing me, lady."

"I'm not the one who started this topic."

"Hey, Drake's thoughts are completely valid here, because we don't have Frost telling him he's not valid simply because he's never gone on a date in his life."

"Actually, I have gone on dates, but I've changed a lot since then," I said. "All in high school. I don't remember any of them."

"Have you tried since you got in here?"

"In the Marines? No . . . not really. There's just a lot I feel like I need to do with myself before . . . before wading into the pool of romantic aspirations." I glanced at Vasquez, who seemed pleased with my cover-up.

"Yeah, to be honest, I really haven't gone for anything serious, either. I probably should. I'm still young. If I try, I'll find my forever girl."

"You mean you and Ferro aren't a thing?" Vasquez asked.

"Listen, we work well together, but we probably shouldn't be in bed together. If we had any romantic problems, we wouldn't want it to bleed into our professional life. Every nitpick we have with each other would be multiplied by a thousand."

"That's when you sit down and work out your problems with each other," I said. "I don't think it's impossible."

"Well, our minds are made up. Plus, we just don't have those kinda feelings for each other. It's more of a brother-sister thing that we have. You know, I was the only one who had any faith in her when we were in flight training. We had the most brutal instructor you could ever have in anything. She was a complete and total-" Spunkmeyer lowered his voice, "bitch. She had a fucking complaint for everything, and she would not let it go the whole day. Here's Ferro, trying to learn something, and she keeps getting told that she's doing it wrong, with no fucking clue what specifically. She would go back to her quarters every single night crying, certain she would be kicked out-"

Ferro rolled her eyes. "It wasn't 'every single night.' I eventually got used to that shit."

"Anyway, I was the one keeping her spirits up and whatnot. We started working together more and more during the day, and one of the other instructors-this older gentleman who had about twenty years and four ranks over the crazy woman-looked at us and said, 'I don't want them separated. Put them in the same unit together.' And here we are."

I found myself smiling. "So, you two have been pilot and co-pilot since the beginning?"

"I wouldn't say 'since the beginning.'" Spunkmeyer looked at Ferro. "You were assigned to this other girl that annoyed you a bit, right?"

Ferro nodded. "We couldn't work together, period. It took me awhile to request you as my new partner. Your partner wasn't any better."

"Actually, he was OK. He once called me a dimwitted fuck-face, but he was at least competent at what he was doing."

"Why did he call you a dimwitted fuck-face?" I asked.

"Oh, who the hell knows? I certainly don't care anymore." Spunkmeyer grinned. "But I've remembered it to throw it at some people here."

"Yeah. Including me," I muttered.

"Hey, I did apologize for calling you an asshole yesterday. You're really not a bad guy, Drake. Hell-" Spunkmeyer leaned in to whisper, "even though Hudson's been a bit of a jerk tonight, he still loves you like a brother, and he misses you above his bunk. He misses having somebody to talk to when he can't fall asleep."

"He doesn't talk to you?"

"I'm usually out before my head hits the pillow. Besides, you're his best friend. I'm pretty sure there's a lot of stuff he's only comfortable talking to you about."

I found myself nodding. "That's . . . true."

"Listen, I know we've had a couple of rough patches in the past, bud, and I know tonight seems kinda odd and outta-the-blue for me to suddenly say, 'I'm sorry for being a dick,' but it's something that had to be done. I know you're dealing with shit right now, and you probably don't want to deal with anyone, you know, pushing you away and acting like you're a piece of crap. Plus, I did say earlier that I got tired of listening to Hudson and Frost, and I just . . . I just . . ." At that point, it appeared as though Spunkmeyer ran out of gas. He paused to collect himself, looking down at his drink, and then switching his gaze between everyone at the table.

"You OK?" I asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright. I'm . . . sorry. I was trying to say that I really didn't want tonight to be like every other night I get to go out with people. Y-You've seen me in the mess hall. The others would start looking at me funny if I managed to cut my way into a conversation and talk my head off."

"It sounded like you just needed an audience," Wierzbowski replied. "We all do, sometimes."

"I got tired of being shut out, that's all. I hope I didn't screw over any conversations you guys were planning on having."

"Are you kidding? I thought I was going to be alone and miserable the whole night," I said.

"I sure as fuck didn't want to be listening to Hudson all night," Ferro added.

"None of us did," Vasquez sighed. "I actually enjoyed listening to you, Spunkmeyer."

"You never enjoy anything, though." I smirked.

"That's not true."

* * *

The conversations died down by the time we ordered our desserts. At one point, I said, "Can anyone see what's going on at the other table?"

Spunkmeyer glanced over. "It's a little quieter. I think Hudson stopped chitchatting when he saw his food coming." He looked again. "That is one monster sundae he's got there."

"Hot fudge and everything?"

"Oh, yeah. Hot fudge, nuts, chocolate chips, and-he's pouring bourbon on it, too."

"Is he drunk?"

"I can't tell."

I shrugged. "He's probably got glassy eyes and a full stomach, and he's Goddamn happy. I'm not gonna bother him."

"If you want, I can talk to him when we go back to quarters."

"It'd be best if I talked to him tomorrow. Or the day after. God only knows how hungover he's gonna be in the morning."

"Well, if you need somebody to play mediator, my door's open."

"Thanks." I weakly smiled.

Something moved in the corner of my eye, and I got the feeling we were being watched. Finally, I turned to my right, and saw a gaunt Hicks staring at us through the window.

* * *

 _Question: Compared to Hicks and Hudson, is Wierzbowski better or worse at getting Drake to quit hiding whenever he feels uncomfortable?_

 _Author's Note: This chapter is a great example of letting one character steal the show. It's really up to the reader whether or not this was a good way to develop Spunkmeyer or if I should reined him in better.  
_

 _I really liked writing him, though, but he was tricky at first. The website TVTropes describes him as having a very broad New York accent, and, yeah, if you listen to him in the movie, he does. I took that and ran with it by adding a layer of "fast-talking New Yorker" to his character. Man, was it fun._


	15. Chapter 15

Hicks's gaze flicked between every person sitting at the table. What baffled me, at first, was that no one else seemed to notice.

That was because what I was seeing had been conjured up by my exhausted imagination.

I would later find out that I had fallen asleep at the table, and I woke up when I heard Wierzbowski saying, "Vasquez, is he asleep?"

Vasquez shook my shoulder. "Drake. Drake, wake up."

I jolted upright. "Hicks! He's . . . He's . . ." I looked at the window, seeing no one. "He was just . . ."

"You were dreaming while just napping. That's not good," Spunkmeyer said. "You're not getting enough of that REM at night."

I rubbed my face, glancing at the window again.

"Maybe we should tell Apone and go home," Wierzbowski said, softly.

"I'll go," Ferro replied, standing up.

"Why? I'm awake now. Just dozed off, that's all," I muttered.

"It's almost nine-thirty anyways," Spunkmeyer replied. "I'm tired, too. I think I talked your ears off enough."

"Alright, people, line up outside!" Apone shouted.

Wierzbowski offered me his hand. "Do you need help?"

"I'll be fine. I don't need help." I stood up, following everyone out into the center. We didn't bother getting in ranks and such; Apone immediately walked us back down to our barracks, and ordered everyone to shower and get in their rooms for lights-out.

There was a pretty strong smell of alcohol coming from each one of us as we crowded into the locker room to undress and shower. Hudson was stumbling a little, and Crowe and Frost had to keep reminding him to grab his body wash and towel and other hygiene items before getting into a stall. We're not allowed to get undressed outside the locker room-anyone could look inside the bathroom from the hallway, so we could get in serious trouble if, say, an officer or one of the girls happened to look in and see one of us naked. Hudson, of course, decided to drop his trousers before going into the locker room, and stood in front of one of the urinals.

"Are you trying to get us all punished?" Spunkmeyer hissed. "Get in here!"

"Relax, man, relax, I'm just taking a quick piss," Hudson slurred.

"Just let him go," I said. "If he gets in trouble, it'll all be on him."

Spunkmeyer rolled his eyes, slamming shut his locker before hanging his towel above it and marching into the showers.

As far as I know, Hudson got into a stall without anybody seeing him indecent in the restroom. People were talking among themselves, and then I heard Crowe say, "Good Lord, who just farted?"

"That'd be me, man!" Hudson yelled.

"Can't keep it to yourself, can you?" Spunkmeyer asked.

"He's drunk. Of course he can't," I said. "I pity you for having to share a room with him."

"Well, you'll be joining me when you get outta sick bay, Drake."

"Hey, Spunk, why were you sitting with Drake instead of us?" Frost asked.

Spunkmeyer was silent for a few seconds. "I wanted to sit with Drake. You got a problem with that?"

"No, but we missed having you around."

"Oh, you did, did you? Did you? Don't you lie to my face."

"Technically, he's lying to your ass," Crowe muttered.

"You shut your mouth. You didn't miss having me around, Frost; you and Hudson never let me say a Goddamn word, unless it's a joke. No, I'm sick and tired of being stuck in the fucking background, listening to you bozos talking about how many girls you've had sex with."

"Calm down, Spunkmeyer," Wierzbowski said. "It's too late at night for this."

"I'm glad Hicks is coming back tomorrow. Apone shoulda never considered you for a fucking replacement, Frost. You and Hudson, all you guys do is talk, talk, talk, talk, and yet you have absolutely _nothing_ -and I mean _NOTHING_ -meaningful to say!"

"Whoa, Jesus, Spunkmeyer." I turned off my showerhead. "I get you're kinda angry right now, but that wasn't justified, buddy."

"Why don't you come out here and say all that to my face again," Frost snapped.

"Fine, I will!" Spunkmeyer threw the curtain back on his stall.

Wierzbowski was hastily wrapping his towel around his waist as he got out of the shower, and immediately pushed Frost and Spunkmeyer apart. "That's enough! I'm not tolerating you two fighting in here! Go get dressed and get in your rooms, like Apone said!"

"Who said you're the boss?" Spunkmeyer yelled.

"Listen to him, Goddammit!" I hollered. "I'll punch both of you if you don't stop acting like children. Let them go, Wierzbowski."

Much to my surprise, Spunkmeyer and Frost left the showers, and went to their lockers in silence.

"I should not have had that full rack of ribs, man," Hudson mumbled.

* * *

I was asleep almost as soon as I touched the bed, and I couldn't be roused, period. I wasn't thinking about being woken up early for Hicks's duties, but when my body slowly started to come around, that thought crossed my mind.

The clock read eight-oh-five. I was really late for breakfast. How come no one came to get me?

As I sat up, I noticed the doorknob turning, and Hicks entered the room, dressed in his fatigue trousers and a dark-green turtleneck sweater with the initials USCM stitched across his chest. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn't still sleeping.

"'Morning, Drake," Hicks said, grabbing a chair to sit near me.

"'Morning. When did . . . you get here?"

"About an hour ago. I got everyone up, but I left you alone when I heard about what happened last night."

"What do you mean?"

"Apone told me you were falling asleep at the grill. I decided to give you an extra hour of shuteye."

"Was that all?"

"No. He told me he split my duties in between you and Frost and Vasquez, which I thought was neat."

"So . . . are you OK?"

"Yeah."

"But you were just . . . locked in a cell for three days."

"I know, and I think it may have been a good thing. I didn't have to do anything. I could just sit and think and focus on me."

"Are you still mad at Garen?"

"No. I'm mad that I didn't handle that news very maturely. I should've just left Garen alone and . . . kept managing my own problems." Hicks sighed. "So, how did you manage being my temporary replacement?"

"I did fine. I hated it and don't want to be put in that position ever again, but we didn't fuck it up. We got the bathrooms clean."

"Good. I was gonna order you to do that this weekend, but you got it done earlier. That's great. We can do some fun stuff instead." Hicks glanced toward the door. "That's it? Nothing really happened?"

"You know we went to the grill last night. I mean, that's it. No one got hurt."

Hicks nodded. "I'm proud of you, Drake. You may not have wanted to take this job, but, you didn't make it look bad." He patted my shoulder. "Alright. Time to get up, get dressed, have breakfast."

* * *

Spunkmeyer and Frost weren't speaking to each other, and that was better than them going at each other's throats. After my cooking class, I decided to give my samples to Wierzbowski, because I was still a little pissed with Hudson (and I don't want to be responsible for him gaining weight he doesn't need). We found a quiet place to sit in a large storage room next to the gym, loaded with old equipment and thick layer of dust, but it was secluded and no one would look for us there unless they really tried.

"My ex-wife wasn't much of a cook," Wierzbowski said. "Couldn't do a bowl of cereal."

"At least I can do a bowl of fucking cereal," I muttered. "Thanks for making me feel better about myself."

"You're welcome."

I sighed, sitting with my back against a couple of oversized tires. "So, you were really that quiet that you didn't have . . . anyone to turn to when you realized you were being used, and you turned to drinking because of it?"

"You could say that. It was . . . It was easier. You know, I could just forget, in my own home. I didn't hurt anyone. Somehow, I knew I was slowly hurting myself with it, but there was a part of me that couldn't stop. It became a habit. I made sure that every night, if I just couldn't get to sleep, I'd drink. Sometimes, it'd be ten, eleven, midnight, even. I'd get out of bed, take a couple of beers or whiskey out of the fridge, and drink. I was always hungover in the morning, so I carefully scouted out a job where I didn't have to go in till noon or later, but that sometimes meant I wasn't going home till eight or nine at night. It was awful."

"How'd you decide to join the Marines, then?"

"Ad on television. Well, it started with an ad on television. Suddenly, I was seeing them everywhere, and . . . I kinda took it as a sign, that this was a way to turn my life around. My family was disappointed that I didn't lose this 'phase' of being so quiet, and they kept telling me I wasn't going to move forward if I didn't come out of my shell. I figured the Marines were a way out; I can meet knew people, hopefully people who'll . . . put up with me, or like me. When I got divorced, I was convinced that . . . I wasn't a very likable person."

"God, I know how that feels. I still think I'm unlikable."

"It wasn't until I was attached to this unit that I started feeling like I had any sort of worth. I mean, people liked me, yeah. Hicks, Hudson, Dietrich, Ferro, they all do, but I just didn't feel ready to trust them with what's happened in my past. I didn't want to tell any of them that I'm . . . technically an alcoholic. I still don't want to tell them that I'm an alcoholic."

"Maybe you'll feel better if you open up to them slowly about it."

"It'll feel really odd and out-of-the-blue, though, that's for sure."

"Hey, they have experience with me. They probably won't see you any differently. You've had years to show them that you're a good Marine, a friend, you're kind and gentle-I think they'll be more willing to help you than they do me."

Wierzbowski frowned. "Drake, don't knock yourself like that. You've proven yourself, too."

I sighed. "I just wish I could tell myself that. I also wish my first impression on them wasn't 'This guy is a total asshole.'"

"Would it make you happier if I said you are an asshole, but not a total one?" Wierzbowski offered me a grin.

I weakly smiled back. "Yeah, it kinda does. I really don't want to do a one-eighty and become this overly happy, overly nice . . . falsified human being. Is that wrong?"

"No. Every one of us in this unit is an asshole to a degree."

"Even you?"

"Even me. I've been mean to people, both as a civilian and as a Marine. Being mad at someone or something is normal. It's not helpful to just . . . cover up all those negative emotions, because at the end of the day, they're still there. You don't get rid of them unless you express them." Wierzbowski handed me the bag containing the stuff I made in my class (it was some kind of cake, I don't remember). "For your first couple of lessons, you're not that bad. Maybe it's a talent you haven't explored yet."

"I'm just doing it for when I leave. If I don't know how to do my own food, I'm probably gonna starve, because I can't be bothered to go out all the time." I looked up at the filthy ceiling. "So, have you ever considering going out and finding yourself a better girl?"

"Once or twice. Given that my first and only time was a complete failure, I'm not sure how to do it right."

"Well, don't think of being shy as a flaw. A lot of girls really like that. They take it as a sign that you're a good listener and you think a lot more than you talk. Not to mention, loyalty. A shy guy isn't very likely to cheat. You're best bet is to find a girl who's just as shy as you. That way, you both have an idea of how the other feels and neither of you are concerned about . . . pretending to be someone you're not in order to impress each other."

"That'll be a challenge for sure."

"I can help, you know."

"Do you have experience with dating?"

I felt my stomach drop. "I . . . I do . . . Can you keep a secret?"

"You're keeping mine. I should do the same for you."

"OK. I'm . . . dating Vasquez. Yes, the rumors are true. Me and her are a thing."

"I kinda knew that, if you want me to be honest. Not like I'll say anything, though. Anyway, how long have you two been a couple?"

"Four years. All because we had one thing in common, and because I'm not a creep. We both feel sorry for what we did to end up in juvie. We formed a bond over guilt. That bond gradually turned into love, and it's been that way ever since."

"So you really have this very deep-running, emotionally-based relationship with Vasquez."

"Yep. The only thing I can think of that'll part us is death. I will never cheat on her. I will never break up with her. I will never hurt her, physically or emotionally. I will stand by her, no matter what." I shrugged. "People don't think that when they look at me. Even Spunkmeyer said that his first impression of me was that I'm the kind of guy who goes to parties just to pick up chicks. Honestly, that was true five years ago. It's not, now, and it never will be again."

Wierzbowski nodded. "That probably means your romantic advice will work."

"What works with me and her might not work with everyone else, but I'll give it my best shot. First, we need to work on getting you to stop drinking at night."

"Well, since I lost my flask, I don't have anything to drink anymore."

"That's not going to stop you from craving it. I haven't seen someone go through withdrawal, but I've heard it's not pretty. People will get suspicious if you start acting . . . differently."

"I've gone through it before. Just . . . if I snap at you, it's not your fault."

* * *

I was approached by Hudson later in the afternoon. He wanted to apologize for his actions last night, and if there was any way he could make it up to me.

"Can you promise not to do it again?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Fine. I'm trusting you. If you break it, we're gonna have some serious problems." I glanced over my shoulder, making sure no one was observing us. "Go get Vasquez and Ferro. I need to talk to you all in private."

Within the next ten minutes, the four of us were sitting in the armory. I was on the bench with my legs crossed, looking down at everyone sitting on the floor. "You all remember how we found a flask in the men's room?"

Hudson nodded. "I found it, man."

"I know you did."

"Yeah. Did you ever find whose it was?" Ferro asked. "I know it's not yours or Spunkmeyer's or Hudson's-"

"It's Wierzbowski's," I said.

"Did you tell Apone?" Vasquez asked.

"I don't want to. I want to help Wierzbowski on my own, and I want your help as well. The flask is gone, so he's got nothing, which means he's gonna start withdrawal soon. We are gonna keep everyone else from getting suspicious, alright?"

Ferro and Vasquez looked at each other, confused. Hudson glanced at them.

"Am I gonna have to do this on my own?" I sighed.

"No. Do you have any idea _why_ he's been drinking in the bathroom?" Vasquez replied.

"Are you gonna pester him about it?"

"No!"

"Fine. He was divorced because his ex-wife was using him to pay off old debts and make new ones. This made him upset, so he started drinking. He quit when he joined the Marines, and started up again when he went home for this last Christmas because his family's being a pain in the ass about it."

"OK. That's all we wanted to know," Ferro said, softly. "You want us to help you cover this up from Apone. I think that's stupid and we should get 'Ski some professional help ASAP."

"He's embarrassed about it."

"You were embarrassed about your PTSD, Drake. There's no reason why you can't tell your therapist. I'm sure he can keep things confidential and prevent 'Ski from getting embarrassed."

"I already promised not to tell Apone, not unless things don't work out. I'm not breaking that promise. All I want is for you to be helpful when he starts showing signs of withdrawal. Is that too much to ask?"

Not another word was said, and that made me nervous. Was someone going to squeal? I could get in serious trouble for covering this up and disposing the incriminating evidence. Worse yet, I could severely damage the bond I formed with Wierzbowski. That's the last thing I want to do.

Is it better for me to go down knowing I tried to keep my promise to the end? Or was it best for everyone if I come clean and get Wierzbowski actual help?

No. I have to do this. If I'm going to prove to myself that I'm capable of helping somebody, it's going to be now.

* * *

I was having bad dreams that Apone ordered a surprise piss test, and Wierzbowski got caught, subsequently getting me in trouble. I awoke around one in the morning, and couldn't fall back asleep.

Honestly, I hoped Ariker or Dietrich gave me the OK to go back to my own bunk. I don't feel weak anymore; I can get myself in a top rack. Not to mention, I was a little lonely.

I pulled on my sweatpants and turtleneck before leaving the room. The hall outside of sick bay was really cold, and I could feel goosebumps raising on my arm inside my sling. As I got closer to our living quarters, I could hear Hudson snoring.

"What're you doing out of bed, son?"

I glanced ahead to see Corporal Neslie standing near the door leading to the mess hall. The last time he found me out of bed at an odd hour, he yelled at me. This time, he was perfectly calm. "I . . . can't sleep," I replied.

"Funny. Neither can I," Neslie replied. "I feel like you might be the right person to talk to, though."

"Why?"

"Well, it's not something I'd go to Foster for. I don't exactly have the same relationship with him like Hicks does with Apone. What's got me up is envy. Envy over your unit having such great communication with each other."

"Really? You think we have great communication?"

"Better than what we have. You all know each other personally. You work together well, even if you don't completely get along. There's a very brotherly-sisterly bond between each of you."

I thought about Spunkmeyer and Frost, and about myself. Neslie didn't know anything below the surface. He hadn't even bothered making further attempts to interact with us after nearly getting into a fight with us over the fact that Hudson and I were in the lounge after lights-out. Why he was saying this now was beyond me, and I had other things to worry about.

* * *

 _Question: If both Drake and Wierzbowski get in trouble, would Hicks stand up for them, or would he be upset that he wasn't approached as soon as he was available?_

 _Author's Note: So I did discover a couple of things about Wierzbowski that will have to be addressed to provide continuity between this series and "Aliens," the main one being a ring he wears on his left hand, which means he's married. I was skeptical at first when reading this on a Xenopedia page, but I found it to be true after studying more pictures from the movie. Obviously, I'm not going to wipe what I have for his backstory; I'm going to use this to add an arc to his character._


	16. Chapter 16

Whatever was on Neslie's mind definitely wasn't on the forefront of my mind when we all sat down for breakfast in the morning. I was quick to notice Wierzbowski not eating, but I felt that it would be looked over because today was not one of the better breakfasts. You'd think something like eggs and bagels would be moderately enjoyable, but not when those eggs were powdered and the bagels can cause constipation. Even the orange juice was a little funky.

I took one sniff of the contents in my glass, and promptly set it down. Oranges are supposed to be somewhat sour, but not grapefruit-levels of sour. Believe me, honey, this shit smelled sour.

Hudson gulped his down, and then promptly spit it out. "That's not fucking orange juice, man!"

"Well, it's certainly not mimosas," Spunkmeyer muttered.

"Will you stop bitching?" Apone said. "Hudson, clean up your mess. Drake, stop picking at it and eat it. Same to you, Wierzbowski."

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not . . . feeling too good," Wierzbowski replied.

"Do you need to go to sick bay?"

"N-No. I just . . . um . . . I'll be right back." Wierzbowski stood up, quickly walking down to the restroom.

"Drake, go with him," Hicks ordered.

I trailed Wierzbowski, and wasn't surprised when he collapsed in a stall to throw up. Considering he hadn't eaten much, it was mostly dry heaves from there on out. "You did sneak anything in last night, did you?" I asked.

"No. I was sick as a dog last time I quit. I'll be . . . I'll be fine."

It took a few minutes for the dry heaves to stop. Once that was over, Wierzbowski was shivering and holding his head, unable to stand. I helped him into the locker room, hoping no one would look for us in there. The shower area is brightly lit during the day, and pitch-black after lights-out. My basic knowledge of withdrawal says that the bright lights are not a good idea, but I felt like it'd be cruel to make Wierzbowski stand and walk him down to Ranelli's office.

My mind kinda flew back to when we were fighting bats in Norway, and Hicks developed toxic discharge. The hormones in his medication kicked in and the only way to calm him down was to put a blanket over his head. I wondered if doing the same would help Wierzbowski.

I slunk down to the laundry room, and grabbed a spare blanket from a dusty closet near the washing machines. After shaking out the dust, I jogged back to the locker room, and draped the blanket over Wierzbowski.

We sat in there, in complete silence, for some time. I glanced at him, and said, "Think you can move?"

"No. It hurts my head just thinking about it."

"How's your appetite?"

"I want cold water. That's all. Something cold."

I left him there to get the water. I figured the best place would be Ranelli's office, since he wouldn't ask any questions. He was sitting at his desk, a massive file opened in front of him. "Good morning, Drake. Your appointment's not for another hour, son. Is everything alright?"

"I need a glass of cold water," I said.

"Why from me?"

"Just . . . Wierzbowski's going through withdrawal. Can you help me?"

"Where is he?"

"The men's locker room."

Ranelli unlocked a drawer on his desk, taking out a covered needle. "What symptoms has he shown so far?"

"Nausea, vomiting, headache. Feeling faint when standing."

We walked briskly down to the locker room, where Ranelli ordered me to pull up Wierzbowski's sleeve. He inserted the needle, and then directed me in helping him stand. "Careful, now, Drake, be prepared in case he faints." It was slow-going, but we managed to get Wierzbowski into the office, where we laid him down on one of the couches. Ranelli closed the blinds, and turned on a small desk lamp so he could keep working.

"What did you give him?" I asked.

"Mild sedative. He needs rest, and very little contact with people for the day. I'll send a message to Apone saying that Wierzbowski's with me for reasons I am not obligated to disclose."

"I promised to help him-"

"You are helping him, Drake. You helped him by getting him in here and allowing him a chance to rest and not worry about this. I will not say a word to anyone, is that understood?"

I nodded, but I still had a feeling that I wasn't doing enough.

* * *

Apone and Hicks trusted Ranelli completely when they were told about Wierzbowski. I overheard them say that the big guy was probably stressed or feeling overworked and needed a few hours alone. They never had issues with him in the past, so they didn't question it.

In the meantime, Spunkmeyer and Frost had made up. I found Spunkmeyer in the laundry room, and he told me that he apologized to Frost a couple of hours ago, claiming that most of what he said was wrong and it was a result of being pushed to the background for the last several years. Frost had apologized as well, and said that he'd try to not relegate Spunkmeyer to the back of their group anymore-and that he'd try to keep the failed dates talk to a minimum.

"So, you feel better?" I asked.

"'Course I do. I try not to hold grudges. He apologized, so, I got no reason to keep being mad," Spunkmeyer replied.

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Let things go."

"I just do. If I don't see any benefit to continuing to be angry, I stop being angry. Frost didn't insult me or my intelligence, or Ferro or you or 'Ski or anyone else I've gotten close to. I don't have to defend myself."

I shrugged. "OK. Look, I gotta go down to sick bay and beg Ariker or Dietrich to sleep in my own bunk. When I'm done, did you wanna sit in the courtyard? It's not that bad out."

"Sure. Hey, you have any idea what's going with 'Ski?"

I swallowed hard. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Yeah."

"The flask we found in the men's room a few days ago. It . . . It belonged to Wierzbowski. Ever since he came back from holiday, he would drink in the bathroom because of stuff going on at home. He used to do it before he enlisted, quit cold-turkey, and was clean up until a few months ago. He confessed to me, and I'm trying to help him. This morning, he started going through withdrawal."

"Jesus Christ," Spunkmeyer whispered. "Really? 'Ski was the one drinking in the bathroom. How 'bout that."

"It's not funny-"

"I know it's not funny. Poor guy. Why doesn't he tell Apone?"

"Because I already threw out the evidence and we'll get in trouble for trying to cover this up."

"I'm pretty sure you'll get in far less trouble if you say something rather than have Apone discover it for himself. This isn't something you can bury. How long did you try to bury your PTSD? It got pretty bad the longer you let it go."

"That was different-"

"No, it's not. You may have told Hudson or whoever, but it didn't do anything for you. You needed actual help, and that's what 'Ski needs, too."

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. Without another word, I left the laundry room. If all anyone was going to tell me that Wierzbowski needed real help, then I had already failed.

Apone and Hicks were talking to Foster and Neslie about performing co-op training exercises when I walked up to them in Apone's office. I tried to put on a brave face, but that was hard when I felt like I had beat myself up. "Sarge? I need to talk to you." I glanced at Foster and Neslie. "Without them."

"No, you can say it front of them," Apone said.

"No, I can't."

"Do it, Drake. These're your teammates, too."

I was holding back a lot of anger, so much so that I wanted to take a pen from the desk, and drive it into my belly to tear it open. I would rather have my intestines spill out all over the room than embarrass Wierzbowski in front of Foster and Neslie, two Marines who put no effort into getting along with my unit.

"Spit it out, Drake," Hicks said, softly.

"Fine. When we were cleaning the bathrooms a few days ago, Hudson . . . found a flask by one of the end stalls. I didn't want anyone to be nervous about coming forward, so I didn't say anything to anyone; I wanted to let whoever was responsible to come forward on their own. The next day, I found out . . . it was Wierzbowski's. He's . . . He's been drinking in the bathroom ever since he came back from Christmas leave, and . . . I wanted to help him. I wanted to prove that I'm capable of doing that after using everyone else here as a fucking crutch for so long-"

"OK, hang on." Hicks stood up. "Let's go finish out in the hall."

I continued my story to Hicks, explaining to him how I felt like a total failure for cracking under pressure. You know, the usually stuff I cry about.

Hicks gripped my shoulders, giving me a sympathetic look. "Drake, listen. You're not a failure for doing this. You are helping Wierzbowski by telling us. Do you understand?"

Ranelli had told me the same thing. I nodded, still feeling sick.

"You're not in trouble. I've told you this before. My mission, my job is not to kick anyone out. If you need help, please, come to me." Hicks gently shook me. "OK, Drake? I'll tell Apone. Don't worry about embarrassment or failing. You're fine, and so is Wierzbowski."

* * *

I ended up trying to avoid Foster and Neslie for the rest of the day, but I found my anxiety lifting a little when I saw the two of them sitting on the easternmost side of the courtyard, and could hear their conversation.

Spoiler alert: they weren't talking about Wierzbowski. They were talking about the upcoming training exercises.

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

". . . I would hope this is like what Sergeant Apone did when Hicks was in the brig," Neslie was saying.

"And what makes you say that?" Foster replied, putting his cigarette back in his mouth.

"Improving the communication between our unit and his. I tried talking to Private Drake about that this morning, but he . . . wasn't very helpful."

"I wouldn't go to him first about anything. There isn't much about him that screams 'I'm helpful.'"

"He was chosen alongside Privates Vasquez and Frost to replace Hicks."

"Well, he needs the experience, and he needs to know that the world doesn't revolve around him. I've dealt with PTSD cases before, and none of them have displayed the arrogance and self-pity that Drake has."

"I wouldn't say he's arrogant. An ass, sure, but he does have a very strong heart. Ariker's been telling me about him. He cares deeply for those he's got a personal bond with. Privates Hudson and Wierzbowski, especially. You heard him when he told Apone about what's been going on with Wierzbowski; he was nearly in tears because he wanted to help him."

Foster was silent for a moment. "You do have a point, there."

"I'm just saying. I hope this exercise will improve the communication between us."

I did have to wait for Foster and Neslie to leave, but I eventually got to have a moment alone with Spunkmeyer, who made the mistake of bringing a bag of chips from the lounge. Why? Because Hudson can hear the crinkling of a chip bag from a mile away, and I saw him poking his head into the yard not long after we sat down.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"You guys got food, man?" Hudson replied.

"Go get your own food!"

Spunkmeyer reached into his shirt, and made a clicking sound with his tongue as he pulled out a candy bar. "Here, Hudson! Here, boy!" He tossed the bar at Hudson, who caught it.

"Thanks, man." Hudson sat with us, even though he wasn't invited.

I sighed. "Is there anything else you want?"

"No. I came to tell you that Hicks went and talked to Ranelli and Wierzbowski."

I felt my heart sink. "Wierzbowski was upset, wasn't he?"

"No, actually. He wants to talk to you when you're available."

I stood up. "I'm available now."

As I left, I heard Hudson reaching for my snacks, and Spunkmeyer slapping his hand. "Don't you know your eyes're bigger than your stomach?"

"And don't you know that saying is wrong, man? They really ain't. Just look at a diagram, man."

Spunkmeyer sighed with annoyance.

"I passed anatomy, man. I know what I'm talking about."

* * *

Ranelli left his office to give me and Wierzbowski some privacy when I arrived. Wierzbowski was looking better than this morning, but he was still pale and shaking a little. A cup of tea had been placed in front of him at some point during the day, and it was barely touched.

"I'm sorry I said something," I started.

Wierzbowski shook his head. "Don't be sorry. I'm the one who . . . should've said something a long time ago. I wanted to say 'thank you,' Drake."

"Why?"

"Because I wouldn't have opened up about this if you didn't become a friend."

A small part of me wanted to argue with that, but, today, I refused to let it. Without a word, I gave Wierzbowski a bro-hug. He hugged me back, tightly, and ruffled my hair. When I pulled away, I sighed, and said, "Well . . . you're welcome. And . . . thanks for . . . for trying to help me as well. I appreciate it."

I felt like less of a failure, then, but I think it's unrealistic for me to think that feeling would stick around for very long. As I've mentioned before, I don't have to energy to keep any sort of good feeling floating for very long. They sink too quickly, and I can't bring them back up easily. Plus, I can't force myself to be happy. It only makes me feel worse.

I could tell that Wierzbowski understood that. After all, he'd been trying to force away his bad feelings through alcohol. He knew what fake happiness was. He knew it was the most elusive of emotions, and he knew it demanded a lot of physical and mental energy. With that in mind, I felt that I had gained another person traveling down this dark and twisting road with me. I felt less lonely, less hopeless.

But I also knew it was a matter of time before I dragged myself down again, before I became unbearable to be around again. It was a vicious cycle that I was tired of going through.

I'll be real; several months ago, there were brief moments where I really didn't want to put up with this anymore. That was before I was getting help and being honest with everyone else. I've looked in my medicine cabinet and pondered the fact that I could easily end it and no one would find out till morning. The only thing stopping me were the thoughts of those who loved me when they found out I was gone.

I don't want to imagine Vasquez crying.

I don't want to imagine Hicks flying into rage and depression.

I don't want to imagine Hudson trying to cope with the loss of his best friend.

I don't want to imagine Wierzbowski losing the one person he felt he could open up to about his problems.

I just don't want to imagine any of that, because I know it's exactly what would happen if I took my own life.

I think I can deal with this cycle a few more times.

* * *

Everyone was a bit more perky toward the end of the day. That didn't mean I wanted to hang out with everyone in the lounge, though.

The good news is that I got to move back into my room with Hudson, Spunkmeyer, and Hicks. Since Hicks had to watch everyone in the lounge, Wierzbowski joined me, Hudson, and Spunkmeyer in our room so we could play cards and talk. Hudson had gotten a big envelope in the mail from Miranda, and it was full of photographs and a really long letter and a package of chocolates and a card as an early Valentine's Day present. He showed us all the pictures and the card, and, naturally, he wouldn't share his chocolate.

Spunkmeyer took that as a cue to open his bunk and take out a tiny, worn book containing photos he had saved over the years. Almost all of the pictures of Manhattan were cut out from magazines, and there were several pictures of him and Ferro from when they were in flight training together.

Neither me or Wierzbowski had pictures to show anyone, but that didn't stop us from huddling around our friends and pointing and laughing and asking questions.

"You guys don't have anything?" Spunkmeyer asked.

I shook my head, as did Wierzbowski.

"I got an idea. All of yous, come with me." Spunkmeyer led us into the hallway leading to the public section of the base, and past the grill. There's a much larger lounge that can fit multiple units, and right next door to it is a photo booth. We can't go in the lounge without someone who's corporal or higher, but we can go in the photo booth.

Spunkmeyer crowded us in, and began adjusting the camera and lights. "Come on, gather in, boys. Don't be shy. Alright, gimme a good smile-you, too, Drake. A little closer. Hug each other."

He pressed a button to have the picture taken, and decided to do more. As he moved to take a second one, Hudson sneezed-which was caught on camera. The rest of the pictures were really stupid and goofy, but I liked that I wasn't forcing myself to smile in any of them. Hell, the only picture where I wasn't smiling was when Hudson gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek and roughly tousled my hair.

Spunkmeyer printed and paid for everyone's copies, and handed a small stack to me and Wierzbowski. "There. Now you got your own pictures."

I got a couple lines left in this journal, and I'm glad I can end it with a good note for once; when I took those pictures from Spunkmeyer, I felt like a space in my heart had been filled.

* * *

 _Question: How is Drake going to react to those photos when he loops back into the "low" part of his emotional cycle? Is it getting harder and harder for him to set himself back?_

 _Author's Note: As I'm still mentally planning out the AU story, don't expect it until after the next main-series Drake story, which will tie into "Dead Air." I don't want all the loose ends to be left hanging for too long, and I want to be able to focus solely on the AU story once the Spunkmeyer spinoff and picking up where "Dead Air" left off are completed. The AU doesn't mean the Drake series is over; there's still more to come. Happy reading, - Cat._


End file.
